Baking Cookies

When we went to our first week of church, we met a elderly couple who are here serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They talked to us about how we were enjoying our trip so far, and consoled us when we talked about the things we missed from home. One thing we mentioned was cookies. They don't really have the same baking supplies here, and we could all do with some sweets to treat the homesickness. The Hazelwoods (that's their name) invited us to come over to their house any time and we'd all make cookies together.

Well, today we finally called them up on their offer.

Sister Hazelwood herself hates to make cookies (she confided this in us once we arrived) so the task really fell to us to bake our own deliciousness. Fortunately, most of the girls here love to cook, so I was able to offer advice on which cookies are more delicious - snickerdoodles, of course - and then slink quietly into the living room to chat with Elder Hazelwood.

Oh. The above two pictures are of Kaylie and Clarie. (Kaylie's the one in blue.) They're both from Montana, and actually are the only two in our group who knew each other before they came. Kaylie just graduated from high school - that makes her the youngest person in our group. Clarie is someone I feel a profound kinship with; you see, she also hasn't had her first kiss yet.

This is Sister Hazelwood (above). Her mouth is open because I told her, "Smile, Sister Hazelwood!" and she laughed, saying, "I am smiling!" And that's the truth - she smiles all the time. She is a continuously happy person and very kind. She does, however, have a tendency toward sarcasm and laughs easily at dry humor. In this way - and simply because she's a squat, wrinkly, cheerful woman - she reminds me almost painfully of my own grandmother, who died a few years ago. That's the problem with things that make me happy here: they always make me just a little homesick.

This is Leslie. She doesn't know I took her picture. (You're the best, Leslie!) She's a great example, though, of how easily we all just relaxed once we got to the Hazelwood's home. Leslie, like myself, lives with a host family, so she's in a home setting every day. We agreed, though, the Hazelwood's was nicer. It was warm with grandmotherly comfort. And it was also full of native English speakers.

(Don't give me that look, Elder Hazelwood, I was getting to you!) This is Elder Hazelwood, and he is also fantastic. He made quick friends with Heather, there, and I believe at the point I took this picture he was telling Heather all about the Kennedy family. ("Oh, no. Don't get him started on politics!" Sister Hazelwood moaned.) He also has a great sense of humor and is very fond of us girls already. He's a grandfather, plain and simple: adoring of his young'uns and quick to bestow his hard-won wisdoms on us.

I feel like I should also mention that the Hazelwoods are from New Mexico. You don't really have the full picture of them unless you realize that they both talk with unabashedly hick accents. ("Someday, I'm gonna hafta learn English!" Elder Hazelwood told me.)

This is a picture of our delicious cookies, still in the oven. I'm also deciding that it qualifies at the picture of me being alive in St. Petersburg. Look closely - that's my reflection there. See?

The cookies turned out great, but the company - and the opportunity to rest from our worries - was much better. Here's to all the old wise people I left behind! (*raises imaginary glass of imaginary non-alcoholic beverage*)

(Special Note:  Grandma and Grandpa Reed? Grandpa Grosland? Thanks for always being there for me. I miss you guys more than ever today. All my love, Jess)

Watermelon

There are a lot of reasons I'm glad I chose to live with a host family while I'm here in St. Petersburg. It allows me to see more of the Russian culture; I get to have Russian food for every meal; it gives me a sense of being home. One very important reason, however, is this: I get to have watermelon ALL THE TIME.

In Utah, of course, we have watermelon. But it's usually fairly expensive. At my home, we only got to have watermelon a few times a year, and it was always a very exciting surprise. We'd each get a chunk of watermelon to chow down, and then it'd be gone, just a memory of deliciousness lingering on our tongues.

But here, I have watermelon for breakfast, and then again after dinner. (Watermelon is the most popular desert at my new house.) Oleg pulls out a new арбуз each day, slicing it up with his нож, and then gives me two or three huge slices all to myself. "спасибо!" I cheer. "пожалуйста," he replies pleasantly. [I hope your Google Translate is working!]

I eat probably half a watermelon every day! My host parents are of the Mrs. Weasley variety - meaning, they are delighted by giving me more food than I could ever possibly eat - so they are strangely pleased with my obvious love for the fruit. They make sure to have some on the table for me every morning, and they never let me leave without asking if I want more.

And, in case there was any doubt, the watermelon is superb. All of the fruits and vegetables here taste more fresh and more "scrumptious" (as Sonia would say) than any fruit I've ever had before.

Which reminds me: did I ever tell you that I had some dragonfruit a few weeks back?

They've Become Adhesive...

The children.

Oh, heavens, the children.

Especially the boys.

The boys are worse.

They come running down the hall, shouting my name with
Wicked glee. 

"Hello, Miss Jessica!" they shout in their thick accents.

That's when they attack.

They hurl themselves at me,

Their thin arms latching around my stomach,
My thighs, my knees.

Suddenly I am trapped in a waist-high pile of bodies,

All yelling sycophantic nonsense

(It's the only English they know.)

"No Russian, Miss Jessica!"

"Fold your arms, Miss Jessica!"

"Who's sitting nicely, Miss Jessica?!"

 The new kid, Silva - he's particularly bad.

I can't walk past him with having my arm snatched away.

He kisses my hand and rubs his face all over my arm, like a cat.

I shove him off, like the others.

It always takes twice as much effort as I expect.

These kids may be small, but they don't let go easily.

Something to remember:

Children in Russia 

Are less like children in America

And more like

Duct tape.

Short Update - For Once

No cultural excursions this weekend. Sorry if that makes me really boring, but since my favorite thing to do on the weekends is nothing, this was rather a nice day for me. I slept in; I finished the book I was reading; I prepped for next week's lessons; and I participated in my first Russian birthday party.

My host-sister, Evelen, turned eight years-old last week while I was in Moscow. Her mom was gone on a business trip at the time, so they post-poned the party until this weekend. Actually, as Sonia confessed to me, this is the first birthday party that Evelen has ever had. They've just never done it before. (Oleg and Sonia were both adorably nervous, but things turned out great.)

It turns out that birthday parties in Russia are very similar to birthday parties in America. Evelen had eight friends come over to play games and watch movies and give presents. They had pizza and soda. Then, Sonia brought in a cake with eight candles on it, and everyone sang "Happy Birthday." (They sang it in English, too! I asked Oleg why, because the rest of the party was incomprehensible Russian. He said it's just something they've picked up from movies and TV, and maybe from their English classes. Huh. Who'da thunk?)

So, just in case you've ever wondered, kids in Russia are the same as kids in America - they like to run around screaming, suck the helium out of their balloons, and giggle madly like chipmunks.

Photos from Moscow

This is going to be a very long post. You have been warned.

As you probably know, I took the train to Moscow and back last weekend. The ride there was not very enjoyable - an eight hour ride in uncomfortable seats, with a drunk wandering up and down the aisle. The ride back was better, mostly because we got to have beds. (Best idea ever!) Either way, though, I have now travelled by train. +30 XP.

I could tell you lots and lots about what happened - getting lost with a Russian bus driver who spoke no English; the Moscow ILP teachers' ridiculously lavish apartment building; the confusing metro station; getting my picture with "Lenin" and "Stalin"; partnering up with a group of retired Canadians - but then we'd never get to the pictures. So I'll just have to tell you about all that other stuff in person, I guess. Or maybe you can read my Travel Log when I get back.

For now, heeeeeeeere's Moscow!

The Metro stations in Moscow are simply beautiful.
Stopping at each one is like going through a museum of art.

It should be noted, however, that while Moscow's Metro is very beautiful,
it is also very confusing. St. Petersburg is much more user-friendly.

This is a photo of the aforementioned getting-lost-on-a-bus.
The bus driver was not angry with us, fortunately. He found us hilarious.
He actually called his bus driver friends over to peer at us through the window and laugh.
Yeah, not the most dignified moment of my life.

We found a tiny bit of nature while we were there.
Doesn't the landscape kind of look like Southern Utah?
It made me homesick.

This is a sculpture/memorial that stands outside the Museum of the Great Patriotic War.
For those of us who aren't Russian, that translates to World War II.
A great big World War II museum!
(I can think of a few young men who should be violently jealous by now.)

"Get a picture of me next to the tank!" I squealed, delighted.
Clarie raised an eyebrow at me, then impatiently took a quick snapshot.
Then she dragged me away, before I could start climbing up on top of it.

(Edit: I have been informed that this is not a tank. Looking at it now, that seems kind of obvious. But I just saw a big green gun on wheels and thought 'TANK,' so...Whatever. It's still cool.)

The Museum was amazing. They have tons of relics from the war,
old uniforms, flags, weapons, photographs, etc.
WWII is a much bigger deal to them, because 3/4s of it was fought on USSR territory.
Nazi Germany lost approx. 2 million people in the war.
Russia lost 20 million.

And now, for my favorite part of the entire trip: The Hall of Sorrow.
It's a huge hall memorializing the soldiers who were killed,
but specifically dedicated to the women who lost husbands, sons, and brothers.
It is the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen in a museum,
and my camera just doesn't do it justice. However, I'll share what I can.

This is the hall. Along both sides, at intervals, are pedestals holding books of names,
listing soldiers who were killed. But the real magnificence of the hall is
what is dangling from the ceiling.

From the ceiling are hung thousands of delicate chains, some holding sparkling gems.
They shimmer in the light, creating the illusion that the entire hall is lit by a mist of tears.
It is breathtaking. I had to stand there for fifteen minutes before I could even think to move again.

At the center of the hall, the tears all gather around one sculpture.
A woman, weeping over a dead soldier.

This is the price of war.

But, there was still more of the musuem to see.
For those of you who can't read the Cyrillic name plate at the base of this bust,
this is a statue of Stalin.

The picture isn't sideways; the flag is. Sorry about that.
Time for your neck exercises! Everyone, stretch!

Here are some of the photographs I was telling you about.
They're really hard to see through my camera, I'm sure.
But let me tell you, they were awesome.

Here are a few more.

These photos were neat, but the most incredible stuff I saw in the musuem I didn't take pictures of.
They had a lot of relics and photographs from the Holocaust.
I saw pictures from concentration camps; clothes, toys, and worse from death camps.
It was very emotional, very sacred.
Too sacred to take pictures. I'm sorry.

Along the center of one of the huge staircases in this building, they have this piece.
I think it's a beautiful tribute. The whole museum has a way of really making you feel the presence
of those lost soldiers. Not quite like ghosts; just haunting memories. As if they line the hallways,
straightbacked and proud. "This is what we did," they seem to say. "We did this for you.
"We do not regret it;
you must not forget it."

I absolutely love this picture.

Priest's robes from the wartime.

Women in the Russian military. (USSR military; whatever.)

Comics and newpaper clippings

Don't you wish you could read Russian? Me too!

I don't know what this says.
But does it remind anyone else of the Title of Liberty?

They needed warm uniforms. As I now know from experience, Russia is cold!

Just a glimpse of the museum. There was way too much to see, and we didn't get to stay nearly as long as I would have liked. The other girls wanted to go shopping. (*extremely irritated face*)

(Seriously! Shopping?!)

Goodbye, my lovely museum. I will keep you in my heart forever.

 Then, we went to Arbat street, where we found a cow:

WHAT?!
You'd better believe it. There's a delightful Russian restaurant called My-My
(in Russia, that's pronouned "Moo-Moo")
and they are smart enough to build life-sized cows to attract people to their tables.
It works very well.

Finally, on Saturday we made it to Red Square.
"A fitting cemetary for our country," Oleg (my host father) told me.
I stared at him, confused.
"Is a joke," he prodded.
I laughed weakly. He shook his head, giving up on me.

This is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. That flame is eternal, but the guards are not.
We got to watch a changing of the guard while we were there. It was so cool!
(P.S. Russians march differently than Americans. I thought they were going to pull a muscle.)

Me on Red Square

This is Lenin's Tomb! We didn't get to go inside and see Lenin's wax-coated body, though.
The line was too long, and we were only in Moscow for two days.
But a couple girls in our group did "plank" on the ground in front of it.
That picture is priceless, purely for the faces of the Russians looking on in bewilderment.

And now, for the building I'd been waiting this whole trip to see,
St. Basil's Cathedral!

This building is from the 15th and 16th centuries. I got to go inside,  but you had to pay to take pictures.
One girl in our group took them for all of us, but I don't have any of them on here.
Needless to say, it is a cathedral - beautiful, ancient, and very pleasant for singing in.

So even though the Museum was my favorite part, the entire trip to Moscow -
2670 roubles, 16 hours train ride, getting lost and haggard and sick -
all of that was worth it just to see this cathedral.
What an incredible place!

Alive and well, this is Jessica Grosland, signing off.
Thanks for reading!

She's Got a Ticket to Ride!

That's right. I have a ticket to ride . . . to Moscow! And I'm taking the train! How cool is life?!

But, since that one sentence isn't enough to make up a blog post, it's about time I fulfilled a promise I made to my little brother. See, he wrote me a fantastic short story a couple days after I got to St. Petersburg, and he said I could put it on my blog if I uploaded a video of the Metro's enormous escalator. So here they are.

P.S. The video is pretty boring - it's just a bunch of people on an escalator for two and a half minutes. But the short story is mindblowingly awesome. So stay tuned!

And now, for the awesome:

A Short Story

By: Nik Grosland

 

            One day, I found myself walking down a long and twisty road. As I walked I came across a man named Phillip.
            “Mind if I join you?” asked Phillip.
            “Of course not.” I replied.

            Phillip and I walked for what seemed like hours until we came across a fork in the road. We decided to go right to see where the winds of fate would blow us. As we walked down the right path we came across a group of police officers.
            “Who are these people?” I asked Phillip.
            “I’m sorry but, I was sent to arrest you.” Phillip replied as he put me in handcuffs.
            Well after a long walk back to the nearest police station, Phillip and I parted ways. I was in dreadful need of a nap so I headed to my cell. When I arrived I found myself in the company of three very large men. I quietly made my way over to the bed and fell asleep shortly.
            When I awoke I was alone. Or at least I thought I was. I paced across the floor wondering of what happened to those men. As I walked I tried counting my steps to pass the time. After watching my feet for a considerable amount of time I looked up. To my surprise there were three beautiful women sitting in the cell with me.
            “Hello ladies.” I said.
            There was no response. I asked them some questions to try and get a grip of my surroundings. They still would not answer. I could tell my attempts were futile so I decided to give up. That’s when I noticed the guard standing outside the cell.
            “Excuse me.”
            “Yes?” Replied the guard. As he turned around I saw what a brutal face he had. There were scars and cuts aplenty.
            “What happened to the men?” I asked.
            “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” The guard retorted. He quickly turned back to his other duties and I, though confused, was unscathed by the incident. I waited in the cell for the guard to come back around.
            “Hello, guard?”
            “What is it?” The guard turned, but this time it was an incredibly gorgeous woman.
            “Oh! Excuse me miss but, what happened to the other guard?” I asked.
            The woman didn’t reply. I tried again but still, no answer. I was now in awe. How could four men I had seen earlier the very same day have turned into four beautifully gorgeous women? This reminded me. I turned back to the women in my cell, but to my disbelief, they were gone. As I looked for them within my cell I heard a door open. I turned to find myself staring at a hooded man. He beckoned for me to go with him, so I followed. We walked right out of the station and into the woods. I wondered who this hooded man was but, I had a feeling my answer would be unsettling.

            After what could have been days of walking, I looked back to the hooded man. But he was gone. I looked around but he was nowhere to be seen. I decided that the road ahead seemed rather promising. So I continued walking. And as I walked,

I met a man.

Whose name,

Was,
Phillip…

Epilogue: Video of the Musicians at Peterhof

Let's see if this works. I've never posted one of my own videos before!

P.S. Does anyone know what this song is called? It's one of my favorites, but I can never find it because I don't know the title.

петергоф

Translation: Peterhof. As in, Peterhof Palace. As in, where I spent my Saturday afternoon.

It is a palace of fountains, home to spacious grounds that include over 100 miraculous gold-leafed fountains, beautiful greenery, and the coast of the Baltic Sea. This palace was built for (and designed in part by) Peter the Great, who is actually a very interesting historical figure. I don't know too much of the history, but I'll include some Wikipedia links for those of you who'd like to read up on the man and the palace.

Blessed once again with a sunny day, we spent the day walking the palace grounds. It was serene, spectacular, incredible - ah, heck. There aren't words for what it was like. I spent the day in a kind of haze; in that place, it was easy to think that I must be a princess: the stage was perfectly set. I imagine that if Jane Austen had seen Peterhof, she would have wept. It is so much more fantastic than all of the lovely manors in all her books. This Satuday, for me, was a charmed day; the air itself seemed misted with magic.

Knowing all that, it almost pains me to put these pictures up. There is simply no way to capture the beauty of such a place in pictures - especially when I'm taking all my photos with my phone. However, I know that I must do what little I can to give you a taste of my time here. So here are your pictures; just let your imagination run wild when you see them, creating a world of splendor and majesty. You won't be far off.

This requires explanation. It's a photograph of the wreckage of Peterhof Palace.
I believe this is from the destruction of WWII. It was a devastating loss to the Russian people.
They treasure their history more than most.

This is another photograph from just after WWII. The Russians all came together
to restore their historical buildings that had been so badly damaged.
Without their efforts, this palace would have been lost forever.

These are a couple girls from my group (Allison, Leslie) and our beloved
Cultural Guide, Sveta. She's the Russian on the right.

This path through the woods was my favorite part.
St. Petersburg is a big city, and I've missed nature - especially trees.
They smell a lot better than all that smoke.

This was Peter the Great's favorite fountain. It's called Pyramid.

This band was playing some really awesome classical music.
(Sam, is one of those a marimba? I thought of you the whole time,
because I just couldn't remember what these things are called.)

And . . . the obligatory picture of me being alive.
"Hi, Mom!"

So, the moral of the story is that you all have to travel the world - that's the only way you're ever going to know what it's like. However, for those of you unable to get out and see it for yourselves, I will continue my pitiful attempts at sharing my experience. There's too much to tell, but I'll tell what I can.

From St. Petersburg,

Jessica Grosland