The Orthodox Paradox
In the dorm, we have one computer that we share. Somebody (I suspect the dorm lady, who unlocks the door for us when we want to leave) has put a ceramic sheep on top of it. It is cute, if befuddling.
Anyway, today was an important day because four of us LEFT MOSCOW. This is very exciting. We got up early to hitch a train to Sergiev Posad, a town about 60km outside the city limits, featuring the most sacred monastery of the Russian Orthodox Church. Now, I must say that a round-trip ticket on a train travelling 60km cost 72 rubles (about $2.50). This is only slightly more than a ride on the New York subway, and significantly less than a ride on the London Underground. Government subsidized transportation is less wicked than economists would have you believe. Of course, you get what you pay for. The trains are not, of course, heated (suffer), the cars are clouded with cigarette smoke (suffer), and the benches are thankless planks of cold wood (suffer). Thankfully, we were going to a monastery during Lent, so suffering was the diet of the day.
Stepping out into Sergiev Posad, one could immediately tell that it was not Moscow. The air was fresh, handfuls of old ladies were hawking jars of pickles and homemade coleslaw, and the snow was an unusual color-- white as, well, snow. Majestic onion domes peeked over a not-too-distant hill, promising us the opportunity to gawk in slack-jawed irreverence at religious ceremonies held by many as the center of their existence. The monastery was beautiful, as I'm finding Russian monasteries tend to be. We stepped into the main cathedral of the complex, however, and I was greeted with an unusual sight.
Today, Sunday, the cathedral at Sergiev Posad, was far more crowded than any Moscow metro or cloakroom. In Russian Orthodox services, the congregation stands the whole time-- meaning that people can be packed in, crammed on top of one another, tucked into each other's armpits, and squeezed between the wall and That Omnipresent Burly Russian Guy. However, the oddest thing about this crowd is that nobody was pushing. Everybody respectfully limited himself to his two square inches of floor space and didn't react when those two inches were compounded into one. It was eerie. Without shoving, I don't know how to handle a crowd. I was sucked into the service because of the beautiful singing and the cathedral's perfect acoustics. Almost the entire service was sung. The problem lay in this: after a certain point, I began to get dizzy. It may have been the lack of oxygen, my neighbor's elbow resting compactly in my diaphragm, the fact that my face was smothered in the head scarf of an elderly pilgrim, or the plumes of incense. In any event, my continued existence relied on my leaving the service. I began to work my way out of the crowd, gently and slowly, like a dentist trying to delicately extract a compacted molar. I see an inch of air, I fill it with my hand. Another inch of air-- ooh, I can squeeze my foot over almost a whole three inches. I am almost at the exit-- until-- an old woman (a "babushka") grabs me by the arm with astounding strength and says: "Excuse me, the service isn't over." I try to mime: "I'm dying." A firm headshake from her, and the message was clear. SUFFER. IT IS LENT. My new position was even worse. One arm was held by the babushka. The other was held by her tall, male companion (a son, maybe?). My face was in a leather jacket. The sermon continued. Suffer. Finally, the door cracked open a tiny bit. I seized my opportunity and, wrenching myself away from the babushka and, with more effort, her son, I crouched low to the ground and, leading with my shoulder, having vague, vestigial memories of the birth canal, squeezed myself out into the glorious, Godless sunshine.
I have been to church today.
Our other main adventure in Sergiev Posad was finding lunch. After a bit of searching for something that a) was open and had all of its windows intact and b) wasn't McDonald's, we found a "cafe" that was essentially the Russian equivalent of Urbana's "Apple Dumpling." We sat in a tiny room with a mimeographed menu. It was wonderful. The restaurant served pelmeni, tea, and ice cream. I asked for tea with milk. "We don't have milk," the woman working replied. "Oh, what do you have?" I asked. "Pelmeni, tea, and ice cream." So, I got pelmeni, tea, and ice cream. It was fairly good. And a meal of pelmeni, tea, and ice cream set me back less than $2.00. So who could complain about THAT?
So, my last note for today involves the severe old babushka I encountered at the church. It is a paradox I have dubbed the Orthodox Paradox. On the metro, babushki (plural of "babuskha") will demand anybody sitting to stand up and offer them their seat for their two-minute metro ride. This happens without fail. Reasonable enough, of course-- until you realize that these same babushki spend four hours every Sunday standing up for church. So what can explain this? It is my theory. THE BABUSHKI ARE HUNGRY FOR POWER. There is evidence for this. It is not at all uncommon for babushki to give you their unadulterated opinion of you when they run into you on the street. On the train back to Moscow this afternoon, in fact, one of my friends was yelled at because her bangs were ugly. I went out without buttoning my jacket once and was FOLLOWED for several blocks, harangued by a babushka. Once the babushka at the dorm would not let me out of the dorm because the tag on my shirt was sticking out. They have very specific ideas about exactly how the world should be and will take the necessary steps to ensure that the actual world lives up to their imaginations. Thus it was that another friend of mine, out gathering sticks for a performance piece yesterday, was chased indoors by a babushka who did not see the value of gathering sticks. IF GIVEN THEIR WAY, THE BABUSHKI WILL TRANSFORM RUSSIA INTO A SUPERSTITIOUS PARADISE. Therefore, every day is a war in Russia. The babushki versus everyone else. They're mean, they're lean, and they'll grind you up and eat you with their kasha for breakfast. More dangerous than the police (who, by the way, now that the weather is nice, are crawling all over the streets of Moscow like lice), more dangerous than the mafia, more dangerous even than my movement teacher, if I die before I leave Russia, the babushki are the most likely suspects.
Don't believe the facade.
Punch an old lady in the face today.
It's only self-defense.
Anyway, today was an important day because four of us LEFT MOSCOW. This is very exciting. We got up early to hitch a train to Sergiev Posad, a town about 60km outside the city limits, featuring the most sacred monastery of the Russian Orthodox Church. Now, I must say that a round-trip ticket on a train travelling 60km cost 72 rubles (about $2.50). This is only slightly more than a ride on the New York subway, and significantly less than a ride on the London Underground. Government subsidized transportation is less wicked than economists would have you believe. Of course, you get what you pay for. The trains are not, of course, heated (suffer), the cars are clouded with cigarette smoke (suffer), and the benches are thankless planks of cold wood (suffer). Thankfully, we were going to a monastery during Lent, so suffering was the diet of the day.
Stepping out into Sergiev Posad, one could immediately tell that it was not Moscow. The air was fresh, handfuls of old ladies were hawking jars of pickles and homemade coleslaw, and the snow was an unusual color-- white as, well, snow. Majestic onion domes peeked over a not-too-distant hill, promising us the opportunity to gawk in slack-jawed irreverence at religious ceremonies held by many as the center of their existence. The monastery was beautiful, as I'm finding Russian monasteries tend to be. We stepped into the main cathedral of the complex, however, and I was greeted with an unusual sight.
Today, Sunday, the cathedral at Sergiev Posad, was far more crowded than any Moscow metro or cloakroom. In Russian Orthodox services, the congregation stands the whole time-- meaning that people can be packed in, crammed on top of one another, tucked into each other's armpits, and squeezed between the wall and That Omnipresent Burly Russian Guy. However, the oddest thing about this crowd is that nobody was pushing. Everybody respectfully limited himself to his two square inches of floor space and didn't react when those two inches were compounded into one. It was eerie. Without shoving, I don't know how to handle a crowd. I was sucked into the service because of the beautiful singing and the cathedral's perfect acoustics. Almost the entire service was sung. The problem lay in this: after a certain point, I began to get dizzy. It may have been the lack of oxygen, my neighbor's elbow resting compactly in my diaphragm, the fact that my face was smothered in the head scarf of an elderly pilgrim, or the plumes of incense. In any event, my continued existence relied on my leaving the service. I began to work my way out of the crowd, gently and slowly, like a dentist trying to delicately extract a compacted molar. I see an inch of air, I fill it with my hand. Another inch of air-- ooh, I can squeeze my foot over almost a whole three inches. I am almost at the exit-- until-- an old woman (a "babushka") grabs me by the arm with astounding strength and says: "Excuse me, the service isn't over." I try to mime: "I'm dying." A firm headshake from her, and the message was clear. SUFFER. IT IS LENT. My new position was even worse. One arm was held by the babushka. The other was held by her tall, male companion (a son, maybe?). My face was in a leather jacket. The sermon continued. Suffer. Finally, the door cracked open a tiny bit. I seized my opportunity and, wrenching myself away from the babushka and, with more effort, her son, I crouched low to the ground and, leading with my shoulder, having vague, vestigial memories of the birth canal, squeezed myself out into the glorious, Godless sunshine.
I have been to church today.
Our other main adventure in Sergiev Posad was finding lunch. After a bit of searching for something that a) was open and had all of its windows intact and b) wasn't McDonald's, we found a "cafe" that was essentially the Russian equivalent of Urbana's "Apple Dumpling." We sat in a tiny room with a mimeographed menu. It was wonderful. The restaurant served pelmeni, tea, and ice cream. I asked for tea with milk. "We don't have milk," the woman working replied. "Oh, what do you have?" I asked. "Pelmeni, tea, and ice cream." So, I got pelmeni, tea, and ice cream. It was fairly good. And a meal of pelmeni, tea, and ice cream set me back less than $2.00. So who could complain about THAT?
So, my last note for today involves the severe old babushka I encountered at the church. It is a paradox I have dubbed the Orthodox Paradox. On the metro, babushki (plural of "babuskha") will demand anybody sitting to stand up and offer them their seat for their two-minute metro ride. This happens without fail. Reasonable enough, of course-- until you realize that these same babushki spend four hours every Sunday standing up for church. So what can explain this? It is my theory. THE BABUSHKI ARE HUNGRY FOR POWER. There is evidence for this. It is not at all uncommon for babushki to give you their unadulterated opinion of you when they run into you on the street. On the train back to Moscow this afternoon, in fact, one of my friends was yelled at because her bangs were ugly. I went out without buttoning my jacket once and was FOLLOWED for several blocks, harangued by a babushka. Once the babushka at the dorm would not let me out of the dorm because the tag on my shirt was sticking out. They have very specific ideas about exactly how the world should be and will take the necessary steps to ensure that the actual world lives up to their imaginations. Thus it was that another friend of mine, out gathering sticks for a performance piece yesterday, was chased indoors by a babushka who did not see the value of gathering sticks. IF GIVEN THEIR WAY, THE BABUSHKI WILL TRANSFORM RUSSIA INTO A SUPERSTITIOUS PARADISE. Therefore, every day is a war in Russia. The babushki versus everyone else. They're mean, they're lean, and they'll grind you up and eat you with their kasha for breakfast. More dangerous than the police (who, by the way, now that the weather is nice, are crawling all over the streets of Moscow like lice), more dangerous than the mafia, more dangerous even than my movement teacher, if I die before I leave Russia, the babushki are the most likely suspects.
Don't believe the facade.
Punch an old lady in the face today.
It's only self-defense.