I know this makes me a bad person, but sometimes when I see the hunchbacked men and women begging in the subway, I wonder if they are truly living with a physical difficulty or if they are simply amazing contortionists. Because, man, some of those poses are incredible...

I know that everyone has heard about the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I know it sounds romantic and cool, and yes, I'll even admit that I bought a travel guide to the Trans-Sib and brought it to Russi awith me, in hope of maybe checking that goal off my list. But, I need to clarify: Russian trains are NOT romantic, they are NOT cool, and they are NOT something I would sign up for five days of continuous travel.

Firstly: Everyone in Russia travels by train. They have an incredible train system that stretches from the south to north, and then the long arm of the Trans-Sib goes all the to Beijing. There are different classes of tickets, but I being the student that I am, have only traveled plaskart, or the lowly third class. This means that a ticket to the southern tip of Russia costs about twenty bucks (At less than a dollar an hour, that's not bad!), but it also means, that I am given a humble bunk that is in the open and exposed to all the other travelers. People are stacked into these babies like Lincoln Logs, and I imagine that the Lincoln Logs feel similarly violated and uncomfortable as a passenger does after twenty six hours of being cramped into a bunk that is three inches too short for them. The organization of the bunks is bi-level--there are two levels of two bunks that from a cozy little compartment with comparative privacy, and then the dreaded two bunks that line the corridor of the train.

And for some reason the wagons are always incredibly warm, so all the passenger's body odor steadily simmers to a level that is nearly unbearable, especially when you take into consideration the starting point for most was several body odor gradiants higher than those of us who regularly wear deoderant. Because of the heat, when you plan ahead and prepare and buy groceries for the journey, they turn into a miserable limp mess after sitting around in that heat. Just imagine trying to slice through day old cheese that's been sweating in that enviroment for 24 hours. But, then think about how it's still better than trying to sustain life off the over priced, flimsy packages of imitation potatoe chips they sell to starving passengers.

But that being said, the trains do work. Especially when you think about how horrible the American train system is (I think every time my family tried to use Amtrak, the train was either five hours late, had some sort of mechanical failure, was rerouted, or abandoned a baggage car somewhere in the middle of nowhere), Russi ahas got it down. The trains are never late, they are always full, and they go everywhere.

Russia's police force is a lot more intimidationg than our clumsy and lovable po-po. Firstly, they are called the "militsia," which is just a lot scarier. Secondly, they have uniforms that look like old Communist guard uniforms (olive green hats with black brims and red band around the hat, long olive-green pea coats with varying stripes and pins on the breast, and they have shoes that make really loud clicking sounds when the walk) and they carry nightsticks and guns. Thirdly, they travel in packs. Usually four or five of them cruise the sidewalks together, taking slow, pacing steps that are often synchronized for greater intimidation effect. Fourthly, they can ask to see your passport, visa, registration ANY TIME THEY WANT. It is well known that if you are a foreigner and you get checked for documents, you will probably be asked for a bribe.
But it's not just foreigners who are afraid of the militsia. It's everyone. People avoid them on the street, don't ask them for directions, and give them a wide berth in the subway.
But it is nearly impossible to avoid them--they crawl over this city in greater numbers than overweight people at the MN state fair.
I've only been stopped by a milita man once. But let me tell you, it was scary, in an unexpected way. Handing over your passport to someone who may or may not be trusted to give it back without a large bribe is an uncomfortable experience to say the least. It was all fine, he just scrutinized my visa, registration, and HIV-negative certificate, and sent me on my way.

Passersby, fellow subway riders, and the general public always ask me for directions here. I don't know what it is. Something about me (my good posture? my "sensible" shoes?) just screams "Hey strangers!! Talk to me!!"

I still don't know what's more embarassing: the fact that I never know the answer to their questions, or the fact that most of the time, I don't even understand their questions... Usually I just muster up a smile and "I'm sorry, I don't know," with a shrug, and they hurry on their way, upset that they wasted their time with me.

But, yesterday, I did know the answer! It was probably the best moment of my life. Yeah, my answer was one syllable, but it was a glorious syllable. A man on the subway turned to me as the subway car was coming to a stop, "Is this station Biblioteka Imeni Lenina?" he asked over his newspaper.

I was ready.

"Da," I said, with my best Russian look of condescending nonchalance.

I was proud all day.

I think I need to mention how uncannily similar the coordinator of my program is to me--she also likes Russia and Russian (obviously, she works and lives here), she also like the wilderness and being a semi-hippie, she also has an asexual name, she also has that one blue-and-white-striped button shirt from Gap, and she also thinks jokes about cripples are funny. I rest my case. God, I'm going to be a great lawyer.
But, that being said, you will all understand that she's got connections, and when she invited me to spend spring break in some mountains on the Kolai Peninsula (north of the Arctic Circle) with her, some of her Russian mountain guiding friends, and some local kids they were leading into the wild, I jumped at the chance. And so began my first Soviet wilderness experience.
The first thing that happened is I was given a pair of cross-country skis. Wooden, long, skinny, no-metal-edges cross country skis. Also, they were about 50 years old and has "USSR" painted on the tips. It goes without saying that all Russian wilderness gear hails form this generation: wind breakers are usually some form of day glow, backpacks are of the potato sack variety, and tents...well, those deserve an entire paragraph. The tents were rickety contraptions that were closer to circus tents than the sleek, aerodynamic beasts that we Americans are accustomed to lugging around the woods. They took at least four people and forty minutes to set up. No stakes (leave no trace be damned!) these folks cut down trees to make stakes for their tents. Also, Russians do have a touch of brilliance on their side. Everyone knows that winter camping can be kind of miserable, and everyone complains about it. BUT, Russians actually conquer that fact by putting a very small wood burning stove in each tent. Yes, it's an outrageous fire hazard, but there is nothing lovelier than falling asleep in a warm tent when it is -20 degrees C outside. And also, the stove gives the tent a wizardly quality--all the tents have little chimneys that cautiously poke out of the ceilings. They look like some sketchy version of Merlin's hut, except this one is surrounded by sweaty and smelly mountain men sitting around a raging fire, eating massive amounts of grecha (a grain that Russians eat at every meal) with canned meat, burning their cans and candy wrappers and taking manly pulls off unmarked vodka bottles. Really, just as scary as a wizard's hut to the unitiated.
The people I were with were the real deal: Arkhipov, the ring leader of this group of mountaineers, is some crazy old Russian Army vet, who thought my name was the funniest thing ever, and was surprised when I could tie knots and carried a knife in my pocket (that got me instant street cred with the Russian mountain men). There were a couple other older guys, including the mysterious Igor, who resembled some tiny woodland hunter who like, lives under a rock and could kill a reindeer with his bare hands. He didn't really talk that much. Maybe that's for the best. Other than the guides, we had four kids from Murmansk, the biggest city north of the Arctic circle, with us. They hadn't ever been out on a trip like this, so we took it a little easier than we planned, but I have a few observations to make about Russian children.
1) They all smoke. A 14-year-old girl brought three packs of cigarettes into the back country to tied her over for five days.
2) They do not complain. Even when I could tell the were miserable and hated the trip, they just kept trucking.
3) They think English-Russian dictionaries are the most fun thing in the world, especially the words "fatty," "herpes," "lesion," and "hemp."

So that's how I spent my spring break: huddled around a campfire under layers of gortex and polyester, being taught my first lessons of the complicated world of Russian swearing, and taking (ever so responsible) swigs of Russiand and Ukrainian moonshine.

Oh, and I got a really sick tan too.

Let's talk about babushkas.
Firstly, it's pronounced BA-boosh-ka, not ba-BOOSH-ka. Secondly, it doesn't just mean the head scarf. It means the head scarf, the fur coat, the jowls, and the little old lady that pulls them all together. Usually carrying a plastic bag with goods bought at the market, they walk with more of a side to side motion than a forward motion (like those wind-up boxing nuns), with the slow a steady pace of a glacier that hasn't been told about global warming. There are variations, of course: the little tiny old ladies who are approximately four feet tall, with wispy white hair, the younger babushkas who still try to look even younger with bad dye jobs and excessive makeup, and than the traditional ones, who remind me of Ursula the Sea Witch from the Little Mermaid, in all their matronly glory.
Babushkas run this city. It's really incredible. They are scary, and respected. On the subway, they elbow their way to a spot. They are not above chiding you on the street if you aren't wearing a hat or if you slip on the ice. They will reprimend young drunk boys, they will lecture girls on their shoe choice, and they will discipline children who they see misbehaving--regardless if they are acquainted or not. And they've got power. During our "orientation," which was basically two days of our program coordinators trying to scare us with everything that WILL go wrong here, their advice was simple: "If you are being followed, or are uncomfortable, find yourself a babushka, and she will take care of it."

But that being said, they are also the greatest thing ever. They will start talking to anyone, and a long subway ride becomes much more interesting when you've got a chatty granny sitting next to you. They love to help you out--one who I was sitting by on the metro showered me with schedules of concerts, advice about museums to visit, and her reccommendations on cafes. In train stations, they will point you in the right direction and then start yammering about where you should stay, what you should see...

But, they do have a lot of facial moles.

As anyone who has read a Russian novel knows, Russians have the most complex and ridiculous system for names in the entire world. There are three parts to your name: Your first name, your patronymic name (it is your father's first name with -ovna on the end if you are a girl, and-ovich on the end if you are a boy), and then your last name, that also changes with your gender. All three parts of a women's name should end in "-a," and a man's name will end in a consonant.
It goes without saying that a name like "Casey O'Malley" (it's even weird in English--is "y" a vowel or a consonent? both!) gives them all sorts of problems. Transliterated into Russian letters, my name has been written to sound like "Kauzi," "Kyessy," "Kazee," and (my favorite) "Kissy." I don't even want to get started on "O'Malley," because I don't think apostrophes exist in Russia.
The guys who I row with have taken it upon themselves to find me a suitable Russian name, because Casey simply will not do. So, to them, I am Kseniya Denisovna Ameliova (Ксения Денисовна Амилова) (Kseniya is also the name of the currently reigning Miss World, so I think I'm in good company).
But that whole name is a formal name, and never used between people of the same age group or in groups of friends. And this is where we get to the very best part of Russian names: the nicknames. Russian has an entire system that transforms a name to an endearing name--it's really cool actually. "Dmitri" will become "Dima," "Mitya," Dimochka," "Dimooshka,"... really anything with a "k" or a "ya" sound makes it a nickname. So, "Kseniya" becomes (these are great) "Senya," "Kshooshya," "Shooshka," or "Kshoosh."
So here, my name has become Kshoosh. Doesn't that sound like a bad energy drink or a new type of laundry detergent?