9

A page from my travel journal:
"A month has passed, and I cannot stave off the conclusion that my life out here in Mitino is for the most part a pathetic one. Wasted time and physical softening at every turn, leaning upon my friends back home in the U.S. instead of scattering my craven instincts and penetrating the world here, as I so desire to do. Peculiar, because I feel more immediately outgoing, more prepared to play be the rule we should all play by all the time--nothing matters much, even if you do see these people again--than at home, for sure, but at the same time I'm paralyzed by timidity and, so I like to think, language. I can't tell if my inability to converse freely in Russian is truly a stumbling block or another mental fabrication. But enough! I'm convinced that the living situation in which I've been placed here is indeed a net thrown over my spirit. I simply live too far away from the Moscow I came to seek out. The prospect of 90 minutes on the metro and, worst of all, the wretched buses is, at worst, unbearable, and at best makes me content to sit here in my room and scan the same stale words over and over. I know it's the real experience, the real Russia for a large population; perhaps my constitution is simply not ready for it. But don't tell a Sao Paulan escaping the slums that he's living the genuine Brazil behind! It's not a point I'm prepared to be stoic about, for I'd much, so much rather be in the center, or an easy ride away, where the culture draws itself in. I've learned that, in the enormity of the city, people do not step up to solve your problems for you, and I gnash my teeth at the coordinator who stuck me here when other students got the golden ticket, but she's kind and, recognizing in my foul humor the weight this has become for me, wants to help me out. With luck, I'll be in the dormitory or closer to the center soon enough. I love my host parents, but the truth is I rarely see them, so I'm not getting any speech practice anyway, the food is uninspiring and insufficient, and I tire of cleaning the dog's shit off the floor. I will miss plundering their bookshelf for The Little Prince and One Hundred Years of Solitude [in Russian] all the same."

I wrote this a week ago. For my own delectation, of course, but I figured it would be a convenient way to describe my situation. I've painted a rosy picture for you all, you see, and although this was written at my nadir, when it was very easy to despise everything, there are times when I do not feel like celebrating my surroundings. On the weekends, when I get out into the city and feel free, everything is splendid; but to come back to Mitino and solitude after a day of classroom toil is often simply bleak. So I've decided to move, and in two weeks I will be living near the Novoslobodskaya metro station, a--I still can't process this--five minute walk from the university and immersed in Moscow central. My new hostess and the apartment are what I, at least, have come to associate with quintessentially European, and the room in which I will be sleeping looks out on Novoslobodskaya boulevard, wide windows receiving enough sunlight most of the day to make artifical lighting unnecessary. There's a small desk that reminds me of the kind Hemingway would have labored at standing right under these windows where I can work. And at the thought of what I can do, what I can see, with those three hours not spent standing on public transportation, my heart swells. A new chapter begins.