Map assignment

Hey guys! Today I'll be sharing another one of my favorite assignments I wrote for my Moscow in Transitions course last semester. For context, at three points during the semester (immediately after arrival, around ten days after arrival, and once more in our last week before departure) we were tasked with drawing our own maps of the city, marking places of familiarity or significance with no aid from any reference materials or technology, and then describe the evolution and changes we observed among them. This is the one that I wrote days before leaving Russia. Hope you all enjoy! 




One of the things that I always strive towards the most by far when spending extended periods of time in a new city or country is building a relationship through a sense of regularity and routine. At the time that I submitted my first Moscow map assignment, through a desire to immediately begin exploring some of the city’s most well-known areas, as well as random objects of my own interest, I had already begun to form a certain degree of experiential knowledge, even over the course of just under two weeks. However, the greatest difference that the new version demonstrates is the regularity and routine, and how those have changed my relationship to the city.


In the Green Door anti-cafe near Chistiye Prudi, I have cried from laughter with both international and Russian friends while playing mafia and board games, strengthening my command of the language through practice rooted in laid-back and fun memories. At the Frau Brotchen cafe between RSUH and Novoslobodskaya, I have forged a friendship with the owner and a few specific members of her staff who have seen me in there nearly every day, as I stop by for a revitalizing cappucino and fluffy, heavenly tvorozhnoe kaltso in breaks between classes or to power up on my way to the metro. At Pinza Maestrello in Chistiye Prudi, I have deepened my knowledge of the cuisine of one of my own cultures, this delicious new flatbread-like take on pizza that has become quite prevalent in Italy in recent years. At Gorky Park, I have danced and laughed with friends through some of the final bright sunsets and open blue skies of the fleeting fall, and returned for some introspective snow walks alone on brighter, overcast winter days. I have come to identify Kievskaya and Belorusskaya as my favorite metro stations I have seen, admiring the beauty of their bright patterns and cultural homage to Russia’s neighbors.


On multiple occasions this year, friends coming to visit me in cities that I’m staying or living temporarily, but don’t fully call home, has made them feel more like home to me. In the first week of December, a good friend of mine who I had met on my FEG program in Iceland during the summer of 2016 came to visit me here in Moscow from Germany. It was in the week of her visit that I was able to see how much my relationship to my surroundings in this city have deepend. Though I certainly don’t have all the informations or answers, I was able to lead, direct, help, and translate for a friend who could not speak a word of Russian or recognize any Cyrillic letters, and was successfully able to ensure her a comfortable stay. Because of the inner turmoil and self-doubt that I have admittedly experienced in my time here, particularly during the tumultuous first days of adjustment following my arrival, realizing that I was able to act as a makeshift Muscovite guide and comfortably use my Russian to ask for, order, or contest the price of almost anything with no issues was incredibly empowering. Having this newfound map encompassing so many places in the city already in my mind upon her arrival, I was already able to propose itineraries day by day, keeping in mind what clusters of monuments to visit and restaurants to try were close to each other, sometimes even remembering how to get to them without having to consult the Yandex Metro app I’ve long since downloaded on my phone.

As such, I now know that whatever adversity I may have faced here, both situational and purely psychological, has been worthwhile. I’ve made roots in this city, and expanded the boundaries of my familiarity with it far beyond Korpus 4 and the RSUH campus. I feel proud of the relationship that I have succesfully been able to build with Moscow, and know that I will be able to easily return to and strengthen it at will in the future.

Fragments and vignettes

Hey guys!

For context, throughout my time in Moscow I had to write a couple of these assignments, called "fragments and vignettes," in which the objective was to write about small moments that were significant and stuck out in my experience somehow. Here is one of them.


The Gruzinskaya Pekarnya about halfway between campus and Novoslobodskaya has become a site of many late-evening khachapuri po adjarski runs for me. Most evenings, the same woman is behind the counter to greet me, an efficient but friendly lady, tall and thin with straight blonde hair. On one particular occasion, after I’ve cleared my plates of beet pkhali (they never seem to have cabbage ones, which I’m very curious to try) and khachapuri, she asks me where I’m from, having heard me falter in Russian plenty of times when ordering. When I tell her that I’m from the USA, she pushes further, asking whether I have Russian parents, and displays visible shock when I explain that I’m half American and half Italian, with no Russian background at all to speak of. It’s an interaction that leaves me feeling full and warm, not only of delicious food, but happiness and satisfaction after a meaningful linguistic interaction that helps me to feel like I’m doing something well.


On the last morning of our St Petersburg trip, the beautiful Venice of the North that it’s taken me all of three days to fall madly in love with holds another little treat in store, beyond a potential sugar rush. Our breakfast in the little pishki and coffee cafeteria across the street, which reminds me so much of the canteen at the Azerbaijan University of Languages that I spent so much time in over my summer, is dominated today by an appropriately round ginger cat. It accepts pats and scratches willingly, and then as we jump start our energy for the day of travel that lies ahead, jumps up on a chair next to a friendly babushka, who responds just as enthusiastically. The tender moment is now forever immortalized in a quick candid shot I manage to capture on my smartphone.


Even in the increasingly harsh cold of the almost perpetual November darkness, I still try to push myself to take little walks around the neighborhood, rounding the same series of corners in Miussky Park across the street. On one occasion, I notice in a bush, now just a collection of stark branches devoid of any flowers or leaves, a series of two or three former jugs of water, with large gaping holes cut into their sides, and birdseed sprinkled in the interior. This ingenious reappropriation of plastic materials widely and appropriately regarded as dangerous for the environment as birdfeeders seems fitting.


One evening, Qiao and I decide to finally venture across the street to try the Chinese restaurant inside Druzhba, which even my Lonely Planet guide to Moscow regards as a decent eatery. After a surprising amount of trouble navigating the labyrinth of the mall trying to find the place, we find ourselves in a little corner of existence that seems to have instantly transported us across Eurasia. The patrons inside chatter and laugh amongst themselves, and shouts over the sizzling of the stoves, likely concerning their orders echo from the kitchen - both are entirely Mandarin. I find myself questioning whether I can even use Russian in this place. Its authenticity is confirmed, and the warm broth and noodles, for a time at least, ward off the chill of the November afternoon.

On an exceptionally rainy evening, having failed to add any ticket stubs to my growing collection from various museums and other places I’ve visited in Russia for a while, I decide to seek out the Jewish Museum and Center of Tolerance, equally out of interest, and hope that it will offer relevant and poignant information to inspire my term paper. I wind up spending many hours inside, enthralled at its highly technologically interactive and expansive exhibits, and also the surprising amount of the parts of them written only in Russian that I’m able to understand. I hear a couple of families with young children, clad in monochromatic Hassidic garb, speaking to each other in Hebrew. I wonder if they may be members and exemplaries of this curious and beautiful community of Israeli citizens resident in Moscow, this inspiration of my upcoming work that has brought me to this museum.

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