An afternoon at the Tretyakov Gallery

As I rush inside from the chill and darkness of this late November afternoon that I’m getting scarily used to, I get the sense that this momentous gallery has been a similar reprieve for scores of people like me on many a cold and rainy day. Moving through the main galleries, I find myself taken by the great beauty and variety of styles, time periods, and talent present - particularly as someone who has to pull teeth to draw decent stick figures. Familiar figures of royalty and places of interest or sentimental value to me line the halls. On many occasions, I find myself thinking back to Russian Studies 250 and the various pieces we learned to identify during second semester of my freshman year. And perhaps none makes as much of an impression in the flesh for the first time as Ivan the Terrible and his son Ivan on November 16, 1581.

Seeing such objects of cultural richness and personal interest for the first time in person, even after lengthy familiarity, never ceases to be surreal. I take in its great size that I did not expect for some reason, and the look of visibly mounting remorse and horror in the tsar’s eyes following this particularly fateful and bloody manifestation of his barely contained rage that cost him his son’s live almost exactly 436 years ago. Observing passers-by on a bench located conveniently right in front of it (and taking a moment to rest my overworked feet), it becomes clear to me very quickly that my wonder and bafflement seeing this painting in person is shared by many around me. In other halls, people tend to pay attention more sparringly to works that for personal or simple aesthetic reasons happen to capture their attention. More so than perhaps any other work I’ve seen this afternoon, the portrait of Ivan almost universally commands the attention of anyone who strolls through the hall. In my fifteen or so mintutes of observation, not a single person passes it by. The ubiquitous clicks of smartphone cameras reverberate off of the crimson walls as people immortalize the famed and gruesome work for themselves. I find myself wondering inwardly whether the work features as part of art classes or field trips (as the gallery is packed with little crowds of elementary school-aged children) that instill a sense of familiarity and wonder within Russians for this work comparable to the one I did in RUST 250, and much earlier in life to boot.

The paintings I would list as runners-up are, for the most part, not so famous and universally recognized as the former. A number of lesser-known but beautiful works stand out to me for various reasons. Towards the end of my exploration of the gallery, I find a temporary exhibition of works by Armenian-Russian artist Martiros Saryan. Not noticing the translation on the opposite wall, my first triumph here is being able to read his posted biography and make sense of around 90% of it. But I soon find myself drawn to the locations of his paintings, many of them inspired by Middle Eastern localities I’ve lived in, such as Egypt or Turkey, and his colorful aesthetic. Fruit Shop in Constantinople winds up becoming a favorite, as it embodies a delightfully ordinary aspect of life in my favorite city on Earth with a flourish of golds, pinks, and reds.

Then comes The Black Sea by Aivazovsky. The ill-lit water jostling and forming mountainous waves gives a sense of true foreboding. But the reason that this work sticks in my mind is because of a conversation it inspires. A woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties, leading her boisterous and inquisitive trio of sons on an intellectual family outing, makes a point of stopping and pointing out this painting to her children. I catch her specifying that this artist is one of her favorites, and asking her sons to observe the masterful and delicate work Aivazovsky dedicated to this storm somewhere between Sevastopol, Istanbul, and Batumi. My comprehension of this exchange leaves me with a warm feeling, having observed a shared sense of pride in a talented artist’s work, and its significance to Russia’s artistic heritage, now instilled in the younger generation.

Then comes Matveev’s View of Rome: Colosseum. Even with my somewhat limited knowledge of art history, I’m familiar with the idea that due to the prestige of many institutions and styles of art present on the Italian Peninsula, the nebulous hodgepodge of city-states, duchies, and imperial protectorates that would one day become my country held a great amount of influence over the artistic world for a long time, that it was even common for aspiring artists to embark on grand tours of Italy. Even so, the overwhelming prevalence of paintings of innumerable locations all over Italy that line the first few halls I visit leaves me somewhat surprised. It’s a good feeling all the same to see alluring testimonies to lovely places, some of which I’ve been lucky enough to experience first hand, like this one. Observing the distinct distance of the main city from the Colosseum’s ruins in this reproduction, with greenery flanking the ancient arena, I flash back to when I stood on what was left of the benches within full of awe as a twelve-year-old.

Finally, Bogolubov’s Sledding on the Neva also leaves a distinct impression. Though I love Moscow dearly, Saint Petersburg firmly established its place as one of my very favorite cities I’ve ever been to, and seeing this vast, sweeping panoramic imagining of the city brings a twinge of nostalgia. Its lovely winter landscape and movement of people moving across its solidly frozen surface as though it’s become a naturally formed land bridge connecting the two halves of the city seems to create a sense of community and union. People move across for pure convenience, pass through by happenstance, or simply embrace the seemingly bitter cold and stop to play in the snow. It’s like an aerial view of a gregarious winter outing, involving a whole, beautiful city.

Novodevichy Cemetery and Convent

The presence of this convent’s distinctive golden domes and towering crosses does not exactly come as a surprise in this city, but I still find that I cannot help but marvel at such a medieval wonder’s location just down the road from modern supermarkets and bustling metro stations. A mix of ostensibly local wanderers brushing shoulders with Chinese and Kazakh tourists stroll up around us to the gates through the already crisp late September chill, wandering through the elegantly trimmed, low-rising hedges. The site overall seems to invoke a general sense of historical awe and grandeur, with tall red towers and the centricity of the alabaster Smolensk Cathedral dominating the ambiance. I find myself thinking with particular fascination of the story Eudoxia Lopukhina, having read about it in my Lonely Planet Moscow pocket guide prior to visiting, one of the convent’s more famous residents who, after bearing Peter I a son and being banished to Siberia for trying to start an opposition movement within the church, was invited back by her grandson and lived out her final years in this very convent “in the highest style.” And given its beauty, it’s not hard to see why.


The cemetery, far from being eerie or haunting, provides, at least for me, an even calmer and more soothing introspection. I find strolling over the paths among gravestones a familiar feeling; due to the importance of familial cemetery visits in the Italian culture, my annual journeys to my mother’s hometown have always come with at least one trip to the local cemetery to visit loved ones and relatives who have passed on, in particular my great-grandparents, great aunt, grandfather, and others. Though certainly I may not be related to Khrushchev, Gogol, or Yeltsin, I find myself surprised by how familiar it all feels, and how much it reminds me of one of the places I call home. The layout seems to my eyes more categorical than familial, but also with a touch of randomness. Boris Yeltsin’s distinct Russian-flag grave, with a lovely mosaic-like light blue stripe, is a stone’s throw away from a grave marked with a Romanov surname that makes me wonder if it is home to a relative of the ill-fated final tsar. Further on, grandiose headstones of Soviet officers and war veterans, swaths of metals chiseled onto their uniforms, and even one with a full frontal view of a propellor-driven plane, herald back to an age of socialist heroism and drive.


Here too a good portion of the patrons seem to be tourists both local and foreign, stopping by to see a place that they perhaps see as iconic in this city and country’s monumental history, wanting to pay respects to an interesting political figure, or a writer whose work and accomplishments they’ve always enjoyed or admired. One particular visitor sticks out in my mind; an older woman, graying hair half-hidden behind a triangular blue scarf, with a faded fleece that matches a cluster of purple flowers on the path between us, bows before a grave on her knees, tending to it with a familiarity and dedication that can’t help but remind me of my own grandmother on our family cemetery visits back in Viadana. She brings a touch of direct connectedness and personal intimacy to this place of remembrance and honor. Everyone here is quiet, attentive, and respectful, but the loving nature of her composure and work belongs to a level beyond.


Generalizing from my experience visiting the Novodevichy Cemetery, I would describe a Russian cemetery as peaceful, commemorative, grandiose in some cases, and even familiar, due to the similarities I can perceive with my own cultural upbringing. Its general layout and landmarks, as well as its being open to and ostensibly often frequented by a general public, seem to indicate a desire to commemorate, remember, and actively uphold the life achievements and doings of well known and influential Russians, as a part of the country’s heritage and culture.

A Tourist in St. Petersburg

It is indisputable that St. Petersburg and Moscow share a number of elements in their tourism and nature as tourist destinations. Logically, the two cities, being coveted as the cultural and historical centers of the world’s largest country, esteemed as ultimate destinations for ambitious locals as well, are home to the monuments and cultural fixtures most coveted by international visitors as well. This is immediately discernable upon arrival. Although numerous in Moscow as well, tourists for the most part, at least in the spaces I find myself regularly frequenting, are usually noticeable in great number only around those most well known and coveted of places - the Red Square, the Bolshoy, and other areas of the center that feature most highly in the lists and itineraries of Eyewitness Guides and Lonely Planet.


My impression is that the touristic presence in St. Petersburg can be felt much more universally throughout the city. Everywhere we go, annoyingly persistent would-be guides advertising cruises on the Neva or excursion to the palaces outside the city follow and follow, undeterred by our obvious disinterest. English, among other languages, is much more heard and seen, lining the menus of most every restaurant we visit. There seems to be a difference even in the most frequently used touristic languages; while in Moscow, just about everything seems to be printed in Russian, English, and Chinese, here I find myself noticing much more Italian and Finnish. And I suppose it makes sense that in this “Window onto Europe,” perhaps a bit more accessible both logistically, bureaucratically, and culturally to such groups of people, would reflect those conveniences in the demographics of its visitors as a result.


The discernable European fixation is not lost on me. Living in Moscow, since my arrival I’ve found myself musing upon the fact that the city combines many styles and architectural appearances that I’ve seen both in post-Soviet Baku and medieval western Europe alike. In St. Petersburg, on the other hand, the architecture tends very heavily towards the latter, boasting delicate mauve, magenta, and sky blue shades on buildings that in style could have easily been plopped here by magic, transported from my mother’s Italian hometown. The European connection even, at least based upon my own personal observations and experiences, seems to extend to the inhabitants’ cultural tendencies as well. It feels as though people smile more freely on the streets, aren’t usually so stoic or even aggressive from the get-go in business or service transactions, and live their lives at a measurably slower pace than chaotic and ever-moving Moscow. Far fewer people pass each other in a huff on the sidewalks or when crossing the road; bumping into each other, which is essentially a prerequisite of going outside in Moscow, is far less frequent; and even the pace of movement is sprinkled with a slight dash of Mediterranean ease and joie de vivre.


The difference in my own behavior on this voyage compared to the makeshift home I have created in Moscow is rooted in the fundamentally distinct experience. Compared to three months of everyday life, replete with concerns beyond wandering and observing, these three days are quite intense in their planned nature, the amount of amazingly beautiful things seen and done, and the harsh tingling in my feet and calves after full days of walking all around this urban pride of Peter the Great. Whenever asked to pick which I like better between St. Petersburg and Moscow, my knee-jerk reaction, based on some of the observations I’ve mentioned, as well as the sheer enchantment I felt with its beauty and connecting first hand with the fascinating history that first drew me towards the Russian language as a small child. But perhaps this somewhat idealistic bias, in a sense, remains unsorted. It would likely take a comparable experience of longer-term settlement within the rhythms and cycles that define St. Petersburg, building a relationship like the one I now have with Moscow, to truly be able to say I like it better with a fully informed and balanced perspective.

Victory Park, Moscow

During my ill-timed first visit to Victory Park, after leaving class around five in the afternoon, I feel hesitant to leave the comparably tepid cocoon of the perekhod from the metro station. Murals on the walls of Soviet flags and military medals, in all their socialist pride and glory, greet me as I prepare to brave the elements on the way out. Thick purple clouds on a golden horizon flank the disappearing sun, and a fiercely unforgiving wind whips down the main path towards the World War II Museum, making me feel all the more stupid for lacking the foresight to bring gloves and a hat.


Pushing on through the swiftly arriving darkness, I observe the pillars to the side, topped with small clusters of soldiers, each seeming to represent a particular front or group on the offensive, commemorating the locations and dates of their achievements. The centrally located obelisk, with its every ten centimeters representing a day of the war, towers over everything else, aptly serving as a visual tool to communicate the unending nature of the country’s past plight. With night falling, I give in, retreating to the subterranean warmth of the metro to thaw out my extremities, and return the next day if the weather allows.


Though the return of the night comes just as unsettingly early, with a bit of better planning, I leave campus promptly after class the next day, managing to arrive at Victory Park with a solid hour and forty minutes of sunlight. I am rewarded by this advanced planning with some exquisite illumination of the same pillars and obelisks I saw shrowded in darkness the day before, and breathtakingly fiery colors in the sky behind the museum. Having had a good look at this promenade and central area already, I search curiously for the Memorial Synagogue and Memorial Mosque, wondering just what their purpose is. Are they houses of worship shared with the rest of the city, patronized actively by Jewish and Muslim Muscovites? Or more commemorative and symbolic, in union with the rest of the grounds, perhaps meant to honor soldiers of the respective faiths who died in the war? My questions go somewhat unanswered, as I find the synagogue closed, and the mosque located on the other side of a maze of fenced areas that I can’t seem to find a way across.


In both visits to the park, I notice the flame burning at the foot of the central obelisk, flanked by wreaths of flowers arranged in the colors of Russia’s flag. On one visit, the flame acts as a beacon of light and warmth in the surrounding chill and obscurity of night. On the second visit, it fuses with the rosy late afternoon light reflecting on the white stone walls of the museum as the sun dips below the horizon. And this seems to describe the site’s nature as a national eulogy - a place meant to represent both a beacon of emotion and solidarity, and unity, among a people where scarcely a family was left unscarred by the horrors of the war.

Interestingly, the atmosphere among the visitors to the park themselves surprises me in its dissasociation from its sobering inspiration. On both occasions, groups of schoolchildren on what appear to be fieldtrips boisterously chatter among themselves, play games, and weave around the grounds at top speed. Impeccably fashionable young women chat on their smartphones, their high heels clacking continuously on the pavement. A passing mother scolds her son in Russian hopelessly faster than what I’m able to comprehend under the pillars beside the museum, her critiques echoing off the stoney walls. Most seem to be here in fairly recreational passage, disconnected from the tragedy and suffering that the park commemorates. I am left to ponder how these two can be reconciled in the dissonance that lives on the grounds of the park in its future, as the nighttime taste of the oncoming winter once again seizes control of the city.

Commonplace book assignments

Hey guys!

While I was in Moscow last semester, there were some assignments that I had to do for my "Moscow in Transitions" course that I did online with my advisor back home at Beloit, and since some of them reflected certain experiences that I had and things that I learned quite well, I decided that once the class was done and my final grade was in, I'd share them with you all.

One of my weekly assignments that I had to do was to write lists of at least five words or expressions that I had learned or appreciated in some way from a linguistic standpoint, which we called our "commonplace book." Here are a couple of my favorite entries about words I learned in Russia, for your enjoyment.

Ты замерз? (Are you cold, literally "have you frozen?"): 

On my first weekend after classes, Qiao (one of my two fellow Beloiter exchange students) and I find ourselves whisked away on an adventure outside the city with Alisa and Liuba, Beloit's two RSUH exchange students from last semester, with a big group of their friends and other international students in toe. It consists of a cookout on the shores of a man-made lake in the forest out near Domodedovo Airport. Anya, one of their friends, a friendly and boisterous character, notices me shivering as the darkness sets in, in spite of the bonfire among us, and introduces me to this phrase as she hands me a white blanket. I like it right away; something about the way it rolls off the tongue strongly feels satisfying to vocalize. And li like the imagery of turning to frost from an almost literary standpoint (more than I would the actual feeling, I'm sure). And the fact that I'm getting introduced to such a phrase now, barely two weeks into my time here in mid-September, does not bode well for the oncoming winter. 

Россияние vs. Русские (two different adjectives both meaning "Russian," but with a more country-wide and ethnolinguistically specific connotation respectively): 

This distinction in the citizenship/provenance and ethnic variations in the term "Russian" is mentioned in a discussion on identity in my first speech practice class by the professor Maya. It reminds me right away of an equivalent distinction for "Turkish" that I learned over the summer during my time in Azerbaijan - some of my friends' language parties were ethnically Kurdish international students in Baku from southeastern Turkey, who identified far more with the term "Türkiyeli," meaning "from Turkey," instead of "Türk," simply meaning an ethnic Turk. I like this equivalency between two countries, cultures, and languages so close to my heart and academic path. 

Передумать (to change one's mind): 

From my very first class at RSUH, for a grammar course with my (so far) favorite on campus professor of the semester, Evgeniya, I'm interested in the slew of thinking verbs that she introduces us to. I like that they take prefixes which are shared with verbs of motion, almost as if acknowledging the movement and flexible nature of thinking itself. Something that resounds with me greatly as I attempt to perceive and process everything new around me. 

Язык сломаешь (literally "you'll break your tongue," used to refer to things that are difficult to pronounce): 

This was a phrase that I first heard of long before I came anywhere near formally studying Russian, in a Lonely Planet phrasebook, and even after two years of study it remains immensely relevant. At times I feel confident in my slowly solidifying speaking skills, but more often than not, especially when trying to ask strangers for help in public or trying to tackle unfamiliar vocabulary or complex concepts whose descriptive grammatical structures I'm unsure of, my mouth mutinies. Any semblance of my normally decent pronunciation dissolves into bumbling, incoherent stutters. And my tongue, figuratively, does indeed break. 

Авария (accident): 

Being in Azerbaijan trying to study Turkish was honestly highly frustrating at times, as the communities and spaces required to facilitate organic and effective Turkish acquisition are hard to come by. But perhaps one of the more unexpected and pleasant surprises that came out of my CLS Turkish experience in Baku was, somewhat ironically, how it culturally and linguistically equipped me for living in Russia in ways that Turkey admittedly could never have. Still to this day, I keep finding words I heard on a daily basis in Baku that I just sort of assumed were Azerbaijani are in fact Russian borrowings. They feel familiar, like throwbacks that followed me across the Caucasus. 

Ботаник ("botanist," used as a slang term resembling "nerd"):

This comical slang term meaning something along the lines of "nerd" reminds me a lot of one of my aspiring botanist friends from back home (hi Leslea). We call each other "nerds" affectionately, and remembering how much she tried to convince me to take botany over zoology as my 4U (Beloit term for a science related gen ed requirement), I think she'd appreciate this one for sure.

Бесплатный сыр бывает только в мышеловке ("you can only find free cheese in a mousetrap," meaning good things don't come easy):

One of my favorite on-campus classes is speech practice; aside from the relaxed and fun atmosphere, it presents a unique opportunity to converse about diverse topics in Russian and worry only about doing that, learning unknown and clever proverbs like this in addition to fortifying formal vocabulary. It's wry and ironic nature is comical, and I find myself both amused and pensive at the idea of effortless and easy gains only being available in a dangerous place. 

Надоело ("tired of" or "fed up"): 

This word comes from a recent grammar lesson, included within our book. Expansion of vocabulary is always helpful, and it feels especially good to have a new word under my belt to describe frustration, be it my slow computer, noisily early-rising roommate, or the endless darkness as the subject. 

Сердечка (literally "little heart," a delicious heart shaped vanilla cookie with half dipped in chocolate):

In the past few days, I unexpectedly discovered a gem - a bakery on the road between campus and the nearest metro station called "Frau Brotchen." In reality I passed by it on many occasions prior to trying it for the first time, and now I can't stop going. the cheap and tasty pastries and coffee comfortably couple the quality of the Starbuck's across the street and the prices of the university cafe. One of my new favorite treats are their serdyechki, which I've continued to pronounce incorrectly while ordering. The halves of them covered in chocolate dipping warmly crumble and melt in my mouth. I can already tell I'll be missing them. 

Творожное кольцо ("tvorog rings" - tvorog is a uniquely Russian sort of cottage cheese that can be induced in both savory and sweet foods):

Another high-calorie slice of heaven introduced to me by the fine folk of Frau Brotchen. 

When I tried my first one, it was love at first bite. The outside, encrusted with a slight layer of powdered sugar, has the tiniest crunch, like a churro. The fluffy, sweet tvorog on the inside tastes like a cloud, and goes just right with one of their cappuccinos. 

Абхазия (Abkhazia, a region that Russia and Georgia went to war over in 2008, remains disputed today, internationally recognized as part of Georgia, but Russia holds is an independent nation): 

In a recent conversation about politics and geography with my Québécois friend Olivier, we somehow find ourselves looking up the capital of Abkhazia (it's Sukhumi). It prompts a series of interesting recollections in my mind, as I remember talking nearly a year ago to my friend Sofiko, a Georgian international student back home at Beloit, about her memories of living during Russia's 2008 war with her country. It rendered Abkhazia (and the territory of South Ossetia too for that matter) countries with a similar status to Russia as Northern Cyprus's to Turkey: little, barely recognized territories, existing largely due to support and recognition from a far larger and more influential one. I kind of want to look for some guidebooks about these two places before leaving, as I always find it fascinating to read materials written about territories considered countries in one place but not in another, comparing and contrasting them. 

Thank you guys for reading, and I hope that this was enjoyable or informative in some way. 

I've got other assignments from Moscow in Transitions that I'm interested in sharing, and am well at work on updates about my trip to Italy over the holidays and my time so far in Finland, so expect more to come. 

Take care all!

Nico

The rest of my time in Russia

Hey guys!

Let me apologize first and foremost for 1) not having the ability to come up with any more interesting a title than the one you see above, and 2) for taking so long to update.

At this point, I've been in Finland for almost a month exactly, let alone left Russia (that's been nearly two!), but I figured that it would only be fitting to include something on here to conclude a little on the craziness that was my Russian adventure.

In all honesty, as I've not shied away from mentioning a number of times even in my earlier posts about my time in Moscow, that direct exchange program with my college that I did there for just shy of three months was one of the most challenging experiences of my entire life.
I think that there were a number of factors that contributed to this fact - the intense homesickness I felt immediately upon arrival as a result of not having been back to campus for so long, the little down time at home with my family after an adventure challenging and intense in its own right in Azerbaijan, and various other more personal factors; the lack of integration between the international community and local student body which made it difficult to feel fully welcome; the frankly rather horrid conditions of RSUH's dorms; and various other little logistical and cultural hindrances that would constantly remind me of how far away from everything familiar that I hold dear, from home, from family and friends.

In spite of this, overall I would consider my time that I spent in Russia to be a worthwhile endeavor that allowed me to have some pretty fantastic experiences, and meet some incredible people.

Highlights from the two or so months following my return from St. Petersburg might include:

• Meeting Ksenia, a former RSUH to Beloit exchange student, married to a Beloit alumnus (they're now living together in Moscow and raising bilingual children) at an English practice club for middle schoolers, many of whom were incredibly intelligent and spoke impeccable English
• My dear friend Lea who I met on my Icelandic immersion program in the Westfjords coming to visit me, which was a crazy and wonderful week of adventuring together through the city, visiting touristy places that even I hadn't seen yet, and sharing so many incredible stories of travel, love, and life 
• Seeing a show at one of the sister theaters beside the Bolshoi, which was an incredible architectural space and artistic spectacle, wishing my ex-ballerina mother could have come to Moscow herself to enjoy it with me
• Skating on rinks created over some of the city's immense public parks with my dear international friends and some of their local acquaintances 
• Forming regular and fixed relationships with various cafes and restaurants in the city that provided comforting spaces to relax, study, and work in, and delicious food and drinks to consume - special shoutout to Frau Brotchen, an adorable and delicious little cafe on the street near the university where I consumed many a cappuccino and tvorozhnoye koltso between classes and came to be very friendly with the kind owner

My time in Russia was full of surprises. One of the most truly unexpected was that, because of the friendships I made with other Italian students that were there with me, my time in Moscow helped me to feel Italian. 

I often struggle to define how exactly I feel, how exactly I identify, when it comes to nationality. On the one hand, I objectively and definitely am more American than anything else, as I have grown up, lived, and been educated in the United States for the majority of my life, and this has greatly shaped and influenced me in becoming who I am today. But at the same time, the Italian culture that I grew up with at home, my annual visits, and my five-month long stint living there in middle school has also is a giant part of who I am, and it's the duality that defines me more than any one place. 

At times, especially in the small town where my mother comes from, people tend to ascribe to campanilismo (literally "belltower-ism) when it comes to defining who is a local, and so the validity of my Italianness as someone who has grown up far away and isn't even fully local by blood can be called into question, which is frustrating. 

But with my Italian friends in Moscow, it was completely different. All of us were far from home, in a place to some extent unfamiliar, and were able to bond with each other over shared traditions and culture, similar upbringings, our ability to speak to each other in our mother tongue, and just feel at home for a moment when we most needed to. They showed me both in literal words and figurative actions many times over that they saw no differences between them and myself in terms of our validity and pride in being Italian. And that has meant more to me and been more of a positive influence in my life and identity than I can ever express. 

Quick shoutout to the international community at large, speaking of friends: to my Italians, to my two fellow Beloiters, and to everyone else from RSUH, particularly the ninth floor crew, lovely souls from every corner of the world, THANK YOU. Thank you guys so much for your laugher, your light, your support, your understanding, and never-ending willingness to explore, to have fun, to learn, and to bond together. Being a part of that group was a silver lining of my entire experience. If it weren't for you guys, I don't know how I could have made it. Be well, take care, and know that no matter where we are in the world, where I have a home, so do you. 

Thank you guys for following along with my crazy adventures. Soon, I'll talk about Italy over the holidays, and next, how it's been going so far in Finland. 

Love to all from snowy Turku. 

-Nico 

The theater

The crew 

A little Pitch Perfect routine with my German friend Angelina :) 

The Red Square looking festive and beautiful 

My Quebecois friend Philippe being cute with a kitten

From the Cosmonaut Museum!

Lea writing one of the dozens of postcards we sent out together, both to her family and friends and mutual friends of ours from our Icelandic program

Frau Brötchen 

Lea and I being tourists :)

Inside the Kremlin walls!

Sunset behind the Duma (Russian parliament)

Have you heard? There's a rumor in St Petersburg!

Not unless the rumor is that it's one of the world's most gorgeous cities, and that's just not a rumor - it's objective fact!

Hey everyone.
Immense apologies for the fact that it's been months since I wrote anything relevant to my experience on the ground here in Russia!
Of course there are other things to update, but none even remotely begin to measure up to the incredible nature of the experience that was our three-day trip to St. Petersburg.

Many aspects of the direct exchange program between Beloit College and the Russian State University for the Humanities that I participated in may have been challenging and frustrating. But one of its hands-down most perfect aspects is that every year, my lovely advisor, Beloit Russian professor Donna Oliver, travels to Moscow to meet the students that are currently being hosted here, and accompanies us to St. Petersburg on a trip entirely payed for by our wonderful institution.

The time before and after the trip that Donna spent with us in Moscow itself - staying in our same dorm, no less! - also saw a number of cool experiences. The one that stands out the most in my memory is the dinner that we had with Beloit alumni living in the city. I had assumed for weeks prior that this meant we would be dining with some of the many amazing Russian RSUH students who have been exchange students at Beloit in past years. Instead, we met Kim and Todd, two Beloit alumni who have very similar stories: they came here as exchange students to RSUH in the early 2000s, when the partnership between our two institutions had only been active for a few years, and then wound up moving back, marrying Russians, and are now living long-term in Moscow and raising bilingual and bicultural children. Kim even works at the office of American Councils in Moscow, which is an organization that implements many of the NSLI-Y and CLS programs in Russia, as well as in other countries, and the FLEX program, which is a scholarship that brings young people from the former Soviet Union to the USA as high school exchange students (among which Kate, my first Russian friend who visited me in Moscow a few months ago).
It was really wonderful to meet such kind people to whom I could relate on so many levels of experience, interest, and passion.

The trip to St. Petersburg itself started on the 17th of October, when we set off for the train station to board our Sapsan high-speed train to the Venice of the North. Barring a few minutes of feeling dizzy and nauseous due to dehydration and sitting facing the opposite of the train's direction of movement, I was truly, pleasantly surprised by how comfortable, clean, efficient, and fast the ride was. I often enjoy getting to embark on such long stretches of voyage within a country, such as my bus ride from Bursa to Izmir in Turkey, and the program-chartered bus ride from Reykjavik to the Westfjords in Iceland, as it enables an intimate sight of the terrain, and both literal and figurative natures of the country, so I'm glad I was able to do so here too. The endless stretches of forest burning with the warm colors of mid-fall, broken up by steely streams and clusters of rustic dachas with old Jigulees parked out front did not disappoint.

Right from the beginning, as we left the train station and walked down Nevsky Prospect to a pelmeni restaurant on the way to the hotel, admiring the gentle magenta and violet hues of buildings that looked like they could have been transplanted from a Parisian street, I already knew I was in for something good.

Some highlights:

• Our final morning in the Church on Spilled Blood, where we were treated to a dazzlingly colorful and all-encompassing splendor of Orthodox iconography;
• All the delicious Russian and Georgian food that we enjoyed courtesy of Beloit College;
• The half-day or so we spent in the Winter Palace at the Hermitage, which was full of absolutely beautiful and priceless artifacts from all epochs imaginable of Russian imperial history; 
• Running into our Italian friend Jessica who lived on Brett and Qiao's floor back at RSUH randomly without planning it, proving the world is truly a cosmically tiny place;
• Getting to take in the gorgeous sight of the city and the Neva at sunset with the lovely fall foliage to accentuate the pastel sky;
• Getting to see the final resting place of Catherine the Great and the family of Nicholas II at the Peter and Paul Fortress, whose stories were one of the first forces that drew me to the Russian language;
• Falling in love with one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen.

It goes without saying that my time in St. Petersburg was truly beautiful and formative within all the three months of my study abroad experience in Russia. I was able to come full circle and connect with history and culture that had first sparked my interest in the language, which I had nearly forgotten about. I was captivated by the dazzling details and colors of the architecture, and the aesthetics of all the restaurants and museums we visited. I felt much more relaxed in the noticeably slower and more European style of life present in the city compared to the perpetually hectic and fast-paced lifestyle of Moscow. And the city reached a comparable status of favoritism among the places I've fallen as madly in love with as Istanbul, Reykjavik, Rome and San Francisco. 

I could truly see myself staying more long-term in St. Petersburg if I had the chance, and now that I'm in Turku, Finland for my second semester of this junior year abroad of mine, and have the chance to sign up for a number of trips back to St. Petersburg (visa-free to boot), I hope I will have a chance to visit the lovely Venice of the North again soon.