Minsk: It's the Little Things - Part 3

Negotiating some small item, working through a few differences, and settling into a happy "да, да, да." I love the sound of "da-da-da" in the morning; it reminds me of agreement.

Feeling guilty every time I toss a used napkin on the table at a restaurant, because a server will swoop in within seconds and snatch it away.

Thinking that the ability to produce exact change at the market may be the best form of American diplomacy there is.

Watching with amazement that Belarusians never rarely seem to complain about things in public. A rolled eye? Yeah, maybe. But I [almost] never see people freaking out over a small inconvenience. Folks here roll with the punches.

Watching the strings of lights hung over Lenin street wave in the breeze, and hoping they will be turned on some night before I leave.

Spotting random snippets of UK/American pop culture in signs and advertisements. Simon's Cat. Cartman. Darth Vader: I'm pretty sure they're not licensed to pitch for restaurants, night clubs, and plumbing supplies. At least not in Minsk.

Loving the opportunity to smile and say пожалуйста when an elderly passenger says спасибо after I give up a seat on the bus.

Never, ever seeing a local eat something while they're walking in public; I'm pretty sure this is part of a broader assumption that "private things should be kept private."

Contemplating whether dogs bark in Russian or Belarusian.

Wondering whether I will ever actually eat these chips.

Weekend in Brest

St. Nicholas Church

Minsk contains many charms and opportunities for exploration, but after more than six weeks I've gotten a little stir crazy. There's just too much in Belarus to see! So you can imagine my excitement at the chance to hop a train for another city, even if only for the weekend. Better yet, I joined a fun and convivial group: Heidi and Erich (fellow Fulbrighters), Clark (an English Language Fellow), and her husband and son, Will and Ace. We took the train to Baranovichi to pick up Heidi and completed the four-hour trip together to Brest near the Polish border.

Entrance to Brest Fortress

I've learned to never take weather forecasts too seriously around here, so I wasn't shocked when promises of blue skies and sunshine were met with realities of fog and mist. Undeterred, we found a nice cafe to enjoy some local cuisine, which meant a hot pot of meat, potatoes, and veggies for me - along with a bolshoi-sized beer. Afterward we hoofed it down the boulevard to visit the Brest Fortress. To understand the meaning of this place, one must remember that Belarus suffered a higher percentage of deaths in World War II (known as The Great Patriotic War here) than any other country on earth.

Kholm Gate

While specific numbers remain subject to debate, at least one in four Belarusians were killed during that conflict - either in combat or in Nazi extermination programs that included the torching of entire villages [most Belarusians say the actual number is closer to one in three]. For that reason, Russians and Belarusians take great pride in the soldiers who defended the Brest Fortress in the fierce assault of Operation Barbarossa and continued the fight as partisans in the bloody years that followed. For Americans who might only know about this place from CNN's ill-conceived mockery of its mammoth Courage Monument, the Brest Fortress is a sobering experience.

Courage Monument 

Given the drizzle (and our tired feet) we hunkered down in a shared apartment after our excursion and chatted into the night. The next morning produced some of the sun that the forecast had promised for the previous day. Most of my pals were still sleeping, so I headed out for a quick return jaunt to the Fortress. There might have been about ten other folks wandering about, lost in their own revelries. Once more I ambled around the fortifications, pausing to gaze upon statues and thinking about horrific violence hurled against this place.

Courage Monument and Bayonet Obelisk

Occasionally I'd hear a snatch of audio from the massive star-shaped entrance - sounds of battle, songs of heroic deeds - and I thought about the stories my grandfather told me about his service in the Second World War. Eventually I had to fast-walk back to our apartment; I didn't want to delay my friends. Our plan was to enjoy breakfast before getting back onto the train for Minsk, but International Women's Day meant that most cafes were closed, which seemed fair enough. We settled for a quick lunch at the station and then, back onboard the train, chatted, played games, and eased into the pleasant rhythms of a slow journey home.

No Opera Tonight

I missed the opera tonight, but I got to know my neighbors a whole bunch more.

My flat - on the corner of Lenin and Independence - has a metal door at the downstairs entrance, which requires a chip-based key fob to open. Only, a few days ago I noted that the locking mechanism had been replaced and the door lock deactivated. No problem. The door to my apartment is protected by its own tough locks. So I paid my new situation no mind - until this evening when I was dressed up to attend a concert in town. Hunching my jacket closer in preparation for the evening chill, I noticed that the outer door was locked again; I needed to press a button to release the latch. As the door shut behind me, I figured I'd better double-check that the fob still works.

Nope. Locked up tight.

I stood around for a while, fumbling to find the number to Natalya, my landlady, and wondering if someone would enter or exit. About 15 minutes later another tenant came by and explained (in English, mercifully) that everyone is having the same problem. We waited and shivered, making phone calls and gathering up more neighbors. Finally someone opened the door from the inside. My new friend announced that she'd set out to find a duplicate of a new working fob she found; she'd call me in about a half hour. Sure enough, she returned a bit later and shared a keypad code that would now work for all of us.

By this point my landlady had showed up, wearing her fur as always. "Only in my country," she muttered. I assured her that this sort of hassle happens everywhere. Certainly in the U.S. as well. Then another neighbor, clearly unaware of our collective adventures, attempted to use an old fob. When it didn't work I showed her the new system. Repeating the numbers in Russian, I helped another new friend get inside. By this point I was a half hour late for the opera and really didn't care. I've been in Belarus for more than a month and haven't spent so much time with my neighbors until tonight.

And, heck, this is Minsk. There will always be another concert.

Everybody Up!

After my lecture at ScienceSoft

Teaching in Belarus presents plenty of opportunity for improvisation. Take today, for example. This morning I asked my Communication and Cultures students to prepare skits that will enable them to demonstrate their understanding of "contexts" by which we attempt to coordinate meaning: episode, identity, relationship, and culture.

The scenario calls for one participant to be the professor, the other to be a student who seeks an extension on a late assignment. The context is "episode" - in this case, the episode we commonly label "office hours." In our scenario, the professor is leaving her office. Problem is, the student expects the prof to answer her question in the hallway, outside of office hours. How will they coordinate their meanings of the event?

Both students are stuck in abstraction: "So, the professor would say this… Then the student would say this." They can't quite get into the scene. And neither seem to have grasped the notion of "episode." The meaning isn't attached to the words but rather where and when those words are uttered.

Both students are frustrated. "What in the hell is this guy asking us to do?" I imagine them whispering. The rest of the class awaits some clarity too. This is a smart group, all of them. Smart and interesting and willing to take chances. But the way I've set this up is just too theoretical. I'm edging near the doorway.

"OK, friends, everybody up, we're going outside to the hallway. Yep, really, everyone up."

We're outside of the classroom now, lined up along the radiator under the windows. It's sleeting and cold outside. It's warm here, though.

"Now, you two," I say to my increasingly nervous players: "You're the professor; you're trying to leave." I point to the door through which we just departed the room. "You're trying to walk out of this door."

Shifting my gaze, I adopt a conspiratorial tone: "And you're trying to convince the professor that she ought to hold office hours here. You're the student; you need help, and this is the place. For you, at least."

Back to the professor: "So how do you feel about this, right now?"

She gets it.

My students dive into their roles and soon master the concept of "episode." I wonder if another prof will bust out of their class and cast me a dirty look; the dialogue gets loud. But, hey, we're learning out here!

Eventually we return to the classroom. I don't want to annoy my colleagues. But my favorite moment is outside that door. Once more the lesson is for all of us, professors and students: Sometimes the best learning takes place when our old tricks fail us.

Stop Doing Anything

You awaken just after midnight, feeling an electrical shock in your chest. You breathe, check your pulse, and wait. The street lights flicker through the blinds. You dream awhile. A few hours later you're up again, minutes before the alarm, wondering why you opted to teach at eight in the morning.

You remind yourself, "I've been here before," and you sort through notes. You think about every time you delivered this lecture, every time you elided important details, how you promised yourself you'd cover them better next time. You read emails that remind you how distant you've become, from writing, from friends, from family.

You take the metro, ankle it to your building, and chatter at the guard downstairs.

три, ноль, семь.

That's your room number: "307."

The old man asks questions you can't answer. Eventually he hands you a key. You welcome the class with that fixed smile, but your students figure it out quickly enough. Today is, well, it's hard to explain.

They have that look; you've seen it before.

"Is he going to pull this off?"

You do, barely.

They serenade with friendly "thank you's" as you hit the streets, remembering to return that key.

You stumble a bit, only hitting your stride as you slap a card against the scanner at the metro station. There will be no seats now, it's rush hour, but you don't care. You climb the stairs to your flat but keep walking past your floor. A bit dazed, you descend and work the lock. You'll hole up for the rest of the day.

You recall the wisdom of Homer Simpson.

"Note to self," he said. "Stop doing anything." 

Good advice. At least today.

October Square Station Murals

My "home" metro near October Square features these two murals on either side of Independence Avenue. The photos are photoshopped montages, quickly done and surely containing a number of errors on my part. Time permitting, I hope to revise these images to more correctly convey the artworks' expansive array of military and revolutionary themes. [Until then, feel free to use your mouse to zoom in and out of these draft pix.]

One Month Down

The temperature has crept a bit above freezing here in Minsk, positively balmy weather, and I have developed a cold. I can't complain, really. My days have been spent exploring the city, developing lectures, and even experiencing some local culture (including an evening of Wagner's "The Flying Dutchman" at the National Academic Bolshoi Opera and Ballet Theatre). So after a month of new surroundings, new people, and new food, I'd expect my body to call a temporary time-out.

Getting to know new friends in Minsk

I first felt the onset of headache and scratchy throat just before I delivered a Route 66 lecture for a group of visiting English teachers at the U.S. Embassy's office of Public Affairs. Even so, I thoroughly enjoyed that event, which included opportunities to answer and ask a wide range of questions. For example, when I wondered aloud what qualities lead me to stand out as a foreigner before I open my mouth to speak, one audience member explained that my face lacks Slavic features. Also, I smile way too much. We all got a good laugh with that one.

Getting revved up to sing "Get your kicks on Route 66"

I walked back to my flat, bearing the gift of a painted plate featuring illustrations of Belarusian towns, and collapsed into bed. After catching some sleep, the next day was dedicated to prepping a lecture for my MBA students on Google's hiring and workplace practices. My nose was stuffed, so I needed a quick trip to the pharmacy. Happily, there's one on pretty much every block here in Minsk. Before I entered, I used my trusty Google translate app to look up "nasal spray" in Russian. No way I'd stammer myself to embarrassment this time! Turn's out, it's just pronounced "Na-ZELL-ee spray." Again, thank goodness for cognates.

Winter weather gear

I finished my lecture-prep, rested up a bit, and took the metro past the train station to the building where I teach, ready to hang out with my students during our Friday evening class. Problem is, they're used to starting our meetings with a friendly handshake. And I was still nursing that cold. So when I couldn't explain my uncharacteristic reticence to shake quickly enough, I took the opportunity to introduce them to the "Obama Fist Bump" - which they all seemed to think is pretty cool.

Time and place to rest

Now at last I have a day or so to recover. Tomorrow I'm joining my fellow Fulbrighters and English Language Fellows (yeah, they're called "ELF"s) for an evening at the Chargé d'affaires' residence. And then next week I'll start planning some travel throughout the country and beyond.