Твоё достоянье на все времена!

The semester I spent in Russia wasn't an easy one for me—culture shock is never kind—but it was wonderful. I'll admit I felt a little out of place at first amongst the girls who ended up being my co-teachers. Michelle and Natalie had chosen to go to Russia together. They knew Staci and Emily, who'd chosen to go to Russia together. Esther and Stephanie also chose to go to Russia together. That left me and Tiffany, who was wonderful but was on a different teaching schedule, so it took a little while to get to know her.

Me and Tiffany on one of our first days at the school

Oh, Russia

The 2014 Olympics began in Sochi, Russia, today and it's also my ten-year anniversary of teaching English in Voronezh, so I'm in the mood to celebrate.

On Tuesday I dug out the "shawl" I made in Russia when I was learning to crochet. It's a beautiful bubble-gum pink and the yarn is so incredibly soft. I wanted to make a blanket but after I eventually bought all the pink yarn at the market (a chaotic square filled with stalls and tents, merchants hawking their wares over shoddy wooden counters, children running around with cabbage leaves on their heads) they never restocked, so this is as far as I got:

A busy day

Today was kind of a busy day. I had my first prenatal appointment in the morning—I chose a family physician this time and I think that was a good choice. With Rachel I went to a regular ordinary obstetrician, which was fine—I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was on an assembly line of sorts since delivering babies was virtually all that doctor did, which is fine. His office is across town, though, and there are other perfectly good doctors right here.

Furthermore, the clinic I went to today was pretty awesome. I may have been there forever but first appointments always take forever, don't they? The cool thing was I had an ultrasound (to verify my due date since there was some question as to its veracity) and did some blood work. Right there. I didn't have to take my doctor's orders to another location (technically in another city) for those things. That part was really nice. You'd think an obstetrician's office—especially one that's virtually in a hospital—would be equipped with an ultrasound machine since most pregnant women I know get at least one ultrasound.

But, anyway...there was an ultrasound machine right in my examination room today so I got to see the little jumping bean with my own eyes, which is always a little surreal at this point because I can hardly tell I'm pregnant at all. I will never understand how a stranger can poke my tummy a few times and say, "Yup, I'd say you're measuring right around twelve weeks," and then have the ultrasound prove them right. Granted, those strangers are usually doctors...but no matter how much I poke my own stomach I can hardly tell anything is different at all. I don't get it. And that's just one of many reasons why I'm not a doctor.

So I walked out of my appointment today feeling a bit like a human experiment (urine sample, pap smear, ultrasound, blood work) but completely finished (until next time) and with a new (and slightly closer) due date: July 18th.

That means that I'm just days away from saying goodbye to the first trimester. I hope the second trimester brings back my energy because I didn't get a nap this afternoon and it just about killed me. No joke.

Children's Museum and more Russia friends (May 20)

We went to the Children's Museum in the morning; but barely. We made it there by 11:00, which was just in time for story time. They made an announcement to tell people where to gather for story time and since my girls love reading we headed on over. 

It was possibly the most boring story time I have ever gone to. As you can see my children were not very interested in the telling of the story. The staffer was standing on the complete opposite side of the room and read the book haltingly, without much enthusiasm. Rachel was polite enough to sit through the whole story. Miriam, on the other hand, tried to run away. Twice. 

Бабушка Таня

Before I left for Russia I met a sweet Russian girl named Alla. She had recently moved to Utah from Russia to study English at BYU and she wanted to send a package home to her parents. Since I was headed to her hometown, I volunteered to take the package for her.

She was one of the sweetest girls I had ever met and completely put my mind at ease about moving halfway across the globe by myself. After all, she had just done it. She assured me it wouldn't be too cold in Voronezh since the weather there is about on par with Calgary, Alberta, and I had grown up there. She told me that her mom and dad were the kindest, sweetest couple and that they would take care of me if no one else would.

Of course, I had a host family set up for me—the family of a little boy, Alyosha, from the school where I would be teaching. They were such a young couple, though, that they said they were more like my host brother and sister and Alyosha was my host nephew. Thus it was that Tatiana became my Russian mother.

She wasn't a member of the church (yet—though both her children had already been baptized) but she would come to church almost every week. Sometimes I would sit next to her and sometimes I wouldn't but always there was a warm, motherly hug for me. 

Russia mini-union

Last week, I had Emily and Esther over. We went to Russia together in 2004 to teach English; in June of this year we will have been home for seven years! It's funny to think that seven years ago we had all just met and were still getting to know each other. We were all young women, lost in a foreign country. We had our share of adventure, to be sure, and several misadventures as well. 

Seven years later and we've all gotten married, though some of those marriages have, sadly, ended. Between us all we have eight children—we had half of them over at our house on Friday!

Running-Libraries-Public Transportation

On Thursday I ran to the library with the girls in the jogging stroller. The distance I covered roundtrip was roughly 10.5 km and I averaged a 12-minute mile, which sounds pretty slow unless you know I was pushing a 28 lbs stroller holding 50 lbs of children and hauling 10 lbs of library books and 10+ lbs of other sundry items (diaper bag, lunch, water, and a snowsuit we picked up at Savers on our way home). In total I was pushing close to 100 lbs, which closely approximates my avoirdupois, in front of me.

A marvelous work

Two very exciting things happened this week—for me, at least. First, Elder Russel M. Nelson dedicated a meetinghouse in Voronezh, Russia on October 20th. Previously the church had been renting out buildings to hold their meetings, so it’s very exciting to have one of our own.

I remember bussing out to Lipetsk when I lived in Voronezh to sing at the dedication of the church building there, or what I thought was the dedication of it…now that I think of it, I’m not quite sure what it was. No apostle was present, I’m sure, but something went on and our Voronezh choir combined forces with the Lipetsk choir to do a special musical number.

Sometimes when you live in a foreign country you end up not fully understanding what you’re doing all the time but you still go ahead and do it. At least…that’s what I find.

Flashback Friday: Busing in Russia

The first few weeks of school in Russia, my host dad picked me up from the school to drive me home. If I wasn't teaching evening classes I'd meet Alosha after kindergarten in the afternoon and we'd wait together. If I had to teach evening classes Sasha would make a special trip out to pick me up, which was very nice of him.

My host family lived on the right bank of the Voronezh river in the northern outskirts of Voronezh on Ulitsa Morozova--a fitting name for a street in Russia, Frost Street. The school and all the other teachers lived on the left bank. I'm trying to remember the address of our school, but it's just not coming to me--Dimitrova was an oft used bus stop, but I think the one closest to the school, at least for me, was Ostuzheva, although I could be way off. I'm pretty sure the school was somewhere between Ostuzheva and Dimitrova. Either way, everyone else seemed to live within walking distance or a couple of bus stops away from the school.

I, on the other hand, lived a dedicated bus ride away. If I missed the bus there wasn't any other option (like walking) to get home.

The Tetris Song

Last night Andrew and I were talking about "the future" and we got off on a little tangent. We are narrowing down the list of schools Andrew wants to apply for, one of which is Cornell, the school that the character Andy Bernard (from The Office) went to. Earlier that day, Andrew had been listening to 'Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," a segment by NPR that invites famous people on for interviews/to answer amazingly random questions, and Ed Helms, who plays Andy Bernard, was on.

Apparently he really does play the banjo and is pretty active on banjo forums and things like that. So he's apparently pretty musical.

One of the questions he was asked was about "The Tetris Song." And that's how we got onto our tangent.

"How does that song go?" Andrew asked me. "I can't think of the tune!"

I sang in the Russian Choir at BYU for a few years, which was a whole lot of fun. Ironically enough, the director of the choir was named David Layton and pretty much the whole choir thought we were married for quite some time. The fact that my maiden name is Layton didn't help quell any rumors nor did the fact that my brother's name is David and we were required to provide a black binder to hold our music and the only one that I could find at home had "DAVID LAYTON" written on the spine with permanent marker.

I didn't know that anyone thought we were married until a girl asked me, "So what are you going to do after David graduates? Are you going to move back to Alaska or head somewhere else?"

I looked at her, utterly confused, and said, "Alaska?"

"Yeah, of course Alaska. That's where your husband is from."

And then I looked at her even more confused and said, "Husband?"

"Oh, David's not your husband?"

Yeah, no. David's not my husband. And I wasn't even married at the time (I finished my degree before Andrew returned home from his mission). That conversation was plain awkward--more for her than for me, I'm sure.

Still, choir was a lot of fun and I still have a lot of the music tucked away in a black binder with "DAVID LAYTON" written on the spine. It's...somewhere. I still sing some songs occasionally because we sang some really fun songs, including "The Tetris Song."

But for some reason, "The Tetris Song" just wasn't coming to me last night. The first song I thought of was Katyusha (English or Russian). I started singing that.

"No, no, no!" Andrew said in agony, "That's not right! I almost had the tune and now it's gone!"

He started humming a tune. Gas Truck Theme Song #1 (also known as Lambada) popped into my head. That definitely wasn't right, either. I didn't start humming that one because I didn't want to throw Andrew off the trail.

Next I thought of Kalinka (English or Russian) but I also knew that one didn't go with Tetris.

"It's about a guy carrying a basket and his shoulders get tired so he sets it down...you know any songs like that?" Andrew would ask before closing his eyes and working through some more music in his head.

And then, after about a half hour of wracking our brains, Andrew spilled out a sequence of notes that finally sounded familiar.

"...Пожалей, моя зазнобушка, Молодецкого плеча!" I finished for him, "Korobushka!"

"That's it!" said Andrew.

I sang the bits that I could remember to him. I haven't sung that song in a long time, so I couldn't sing very much, but it was nice to know that we finally figured out what the song was. (Korobushka in English or Russian).

"You know," Andrew admitted, "I knew all along the song was called Korobushka. Would that have helped you figure out the tune?"

Oi! Polna, polna! D'ya think?!

Of course, my subconscious was on the right track all along. I seemed to be going through songs that start with the letter K: Kalinka, Katyusha...I don't know why Lambada popped in there but...I'm sure I would have thought of Korobushka eventually. I'm just glad we thought of the song before 2 o'clock in the morning.

We're both a little nerdy and once we think of a question need an answer. Wikipedia and Google have solved so many of our "disagreements." We were just about ready to race to our computers so that we could find out the answer. In this case, whoever found the answer first would have "won" because we weren't really disagreeing, we just couldn't think of the answer. That means Andrew would have "won" because his computer boots up way faster than mine.

Usually, though, we look things up because one of us says something and the other says, "No way!" and then we have to look it up to see who's right and who's wrong. It doesn't matter who finds the answer first, necessarily, but that whoever was right in the first place is vindicated.

You'd be surprised how many times we've gotten up out of bed to look things up in the dictionary or on wikipedia. Too many times, really.

We both won last night, though, because Ed Helms didn't know that "The Tetris Song" was Russian, and we both did. So, now we're smarter than Andy Bernard, right? And he went to Cornell, so Andrew could definitely get in, too, right?

Granted, Ed Helms isn't Andy Bernard, has no known ties to Russia, and plays the banjo, not the balalaika (although he did teach himself how to play the sitar, so maybe the balalaika will be next). So how could he be expected to know much about "The Tetris Song?" I don't think he even went to Cornell so this probably isn't going to up our chances of getting in any since they only accept 2 applicants per year. Still, Cornell is on our list of "top 5 schools to apply to."

Or, you could wear a CTR ring

During sharing time a few weeks ago we made cards to give to all our friends and teachers that would shortly be moving away, and also for Sister Tueller, our chorister, who is back in the States for surgery/chemo. Our branch is rather transitory and dissolves at the start of summer; typically we gain several new members at the end of summer, or so I'm told.

The card-making involved lots of paper and scissors and Mr. Sketch felt pens. With 20 some-odd kids in primary, havoc reigned. Paper, scissors, and felt pens were being passed around pell-mell. I, myself, received a nasty paper cut, but there were no other serious casualties, for which I was grateful. I was having visions of someone's eye being poked out or a felt getting stuck up someone's nose or something equally grotesque.

Everyone was having fun creating their cards while chatting, and saying goodbye. I was wandering around the room, looking at the children's work, and occasionally helping someone spell a particularly tricky last name like "Tueller" or "Meservy."

We were running out of time and trying to wrap of the pandemonium, when I saw that Keji was harboring a blueberry scented felt pen (not the sky blue, blueberry slushie scented one (that indecently ended up getting Mr. Sketch banned from our house after my mom found Patrick, then about 2 years old, with a sky blue mouth (we weren't supposed to leave the felt pens where he could reach them)). No, not the sky blue felt, but the dark blue one). She looked from the pen to her arm and back at the pen. I knew what was coming.

She uncapped the felt pen and hastily drew a whoppingly ginormous cross on her arm.

"أنا مسيحى" she crooned, looking rather self-satisfied. "I'm a Christian!"

Obviously emulating the Copts (since many tattoo a Coptic Cross on their right arm) Keji felt like she was really professing her faith--only she did it on her left arm, since she is right handed, with a very water-soluble medium. Someone's got to get this girl a CTR ring!

Keji is one of two Sudanese children in our primary (her brother is Farayella) and they can be a challenge to teach since we all struggle communicating with them. Even those of us with a little knowledge of Arabic (or those of us with a firm grasp of Arabic, like Andrew, or the Egyptian members) struggle understanding this poor little family.

Most of our primary children with their cupcakes

(For the cupcake story, go here)

But they come faithfully, which I admire, because it is hard to not understand, to look different, to feel different.

Lucky for me, I'm not the odd-ball out in our branch here, but I've been the odd-ball out before. In Russia I sat through meetings grabbing words here and there, trying to piece them together, or, if I was lucky enough to sit by someone who could translate, straining to hear a whispered, halting translation until I understood enough to get by on my own.

In Jordan (in the al-Husn branch, the only soley Arabic-speaking branch of the church) I was shooed off to Relief Society, separated from all the other English-speaking girls, who should have been in Relief Society with me, but were invited to attend Young Women because they weren't yet married. I was given a manual and asked to follow along in Arabic. I was young, I was white, and I didn't speak any Arabic. I was very different from everyone else in the room. And that was scary.

So I really admire the courage of Keji and Farayella, how they come to church weekly and try their best to keep up with what's happening, how they try to learn the words to the songs, how they (usually) willingly go to their classes to sit with children they can hardly communicate with to listen to a lesson they don't fully understand.

I hope that Keji and Farayella understand that they are children of God. I hope that is the reason they come to church. That is the reason I go to church--because I am a child of God and He has a plan of happiness for me and I want to learn all I can about that plan. It doesn't matter if I don't fit in, if I struggle with a commandment here and there, or if I smell funny. I belong with Heavenly Father's children.

I'm not about to go and stamp that on my forehead, but I do wear a CTR ring. I've worn various CTR rings since I was first given one when graduated from Star B to CTR A,* but I've always wear one. It reminds me of who I am, what I believe, and what I stand for. It helps me remember that I am a child of God and that I can pray to him anytime, anywhere, even if I feel a little out of place. It helps me remember that we are all children of God and that I have that in common with everybody.

I guess, in a way, it's kind of like a cross or a tefillin or Dhikr beads. Still, someone ought to get that girl a CTR ring!

*Back when I went to primary we had Sunbeams, Star, CTR, Valiant, and even Blazers/Merrie Miss (though that was abolished by the time I entered and we were down to Sunbeams, CTR, and Valiant classes; Valiant 12 was such a letdown compared to Merrie Miss!).

Flashback Friday: Mayonnaise Pizza

We like pizza in our family. It’s a meal that Andrew and I can both agree on and it’s easy to make so that we both like it. My side will usually have some combination of green peppers, tomatoes, onions, pineapple, mushrooms, olives, pepperoni, and cheese. I like a lot of topping on my pizza and really am not too picky. Andrew’s side of the pizza will be void of mostly everything. His favorite kind of pizza is margarita, which is just a fancy way of saying cheese pizza. Plain.

There have been some pizzas that I haven’t been too fond of, however. Most of them I had while I was living in Russia in 2004. They don’t do good pizza in Russia.

My friend Tiffany (who, by the way, recently got engaged) and I went to an enrichment activity shortly after we moved to Russia. Since neither Tiffany or I spoke much Russian at the time we felt a little ostracized.

Eventually one of the sisters noticed that we were feeling a little out of place, huddled together in our own little corner, and she looked right at me and said…something.

I thought she asked what our names were. That would be have been a logical first question to ask, right? After all, she didn’t know our names. And I swear I heard her ask for our names. So I answered her.

“Меня зовут Нэнси, и eе зовут Тиффани,” I managed to get out in my 101 level Russian. “My name is Nancy, and her name is Tiffany.”

The whole room cracked up laughing. Tiffany and I shrunk farther into our corner while the ladies continued to laugh and talk about us. It was not cool. Especially because I understood some of what they were saying and not all of it was very kind.

Tiffany and I got to have the last laugh, however, because that night for enrichment we were making American-style pizza. A sister had brought a recipe that she had found on the internet. I have no idea where.

The dough was pretty standard and Tiffany and I were getting excited for some good pizza. The last pizza we had was in the head teacher’s apartment the first couple of weeks we were in Russia. It came on crust as thin as a tortilla, with a couple of slices of cheese melted on top, one whole olive, and random herb leaves sprinkled on top, also whole. It was not satisfying so we were thrilled about some good home-cooked American pizza, and things were looking promising.

When the dough had finished rising and we had it ready to go in the pan, they brought out a huge jar of mayonnaise. Tiffany and I looked at each other quizzically. We didn’t realize what the mayonnaise was for until it was too late.

The mayo-loving Russians had already popped the jar open and dumped it onto the delicious-looking crust. They spread it all over, just the way I do with my tomato sauce. Nice and thick.

Then they brought out the toppings: tomatoes, corn, pickles, bologna and cheese. Sounds delicious, doesn’t it?

It wasn’t. Tiffany and I were each given a big slice, which we politely accepted, and then tried to inconspicuously choke it down. It was awful.

Warm, gooey mayonnaise was dripping all over the place and mingling with the taste of cheap bologna, pickles, and corn. Our Russian sisters were clearly enjoying theirs. We were merely exercising our gag reflex.

The only thing that could have made the pizza more Russian was if they had put beets on it as well. It was the most un-American thing my American palate had ever tasted. And it was nasty.

“Just like home, да?” the same sister who had laughed in my face earlier asked me in the cloak room while we were getting bundled up to go home, “American pizza.”

I don’t know what got into me—perhaps it was the embarrassment I had suffered earlier or perhaps it was just too much mayonnaise—but somehow I forgot my manners.

“Нет,” I assured her, “Это не пицца!” No, this was not pizza.

It was her turn to act embarrassed.

I still feel badly for saying that to her when she was basically in charge of the activity. That said, it’s probably best if her recipe was never again duplicated.

Flashback Fri...Sunday: Ladna, Lada!

The traffic today was horrendous. We thought for sure we'd die of carbon monoxide poisoning on the way home from the suq due to sitting in bumper to bumper traffic for so long. While we were sitting there I was noticing all the types of cars they have here. Some cars are really big, but most are rather small--fiats, ladas, those mini Chinese buses that are skinnier than your average car.

All the taxis here are painted black and white, but it's still quite easy to tell the make of the car. In Jordan most taxis seemed to be regular American sedans; here, though they're all European small cars and they pile people in them like none other.

A horrible picture of half a lada that I snapped from our cab this afternoon

Seeing so many ladas surround me reminded me of life in Russia. My host family owned a lada and when I first saw it I wondered how we were going to squish me and all my suitcases into the tiny little car. Amazingly enough, everything fit.

Then I wondered how the tiny little car was going to make it through all the ice and snow. Amazingly enough, it made it.

Everytime I questioned the car's abilities the car proved me wrong. Ladas are one tough car. Seriously. They can push through just about any amount of snowy-muck and if they break down, you just get a couple of your friends to flip the car over for you, so you can work on it, and then flip it back over when you're finished. And off you go. We only got stuck a few times, but even then the car was so lightweight that it didn't take much effort to make us unstuck.

They're small though. I always wondered how my super-tall host dad managed to fold his legs inside and scruntch his head low enough to see out the windsheild. For the first few days I was there, things were fine and I fit in the backseat perfectly, without bumping my head on the roof.

But then my host family became increasingly concerned about my fertility and took measures to make sure that my future children's lives were protected. They began piling blankets on my seat to shelter me from the cold. Sitting on cold things can decrease your fertility because they freeze your ovaries, according to Russian superstition.

At first I tried moving the blankets aside, but I was informed that I was supposed to sit on them. So I did, which was fine. But then they kept adding blankets to the pile. Everyday my head got closer and closer to the roof. Soon I was sitting on a pile of blankets, with my head cocked to the side and would bang my head on the roof every time we went over a bump. It felt like a living version of the Princess and the Pea.

I was all too happy when spring came around and my blanket pile shrunk enough that I fit comfortably in the car again.

I'm cold and it's not even snowing

I hate being cold; and I know what it's like to be cold, too. I remember when my family moved to Alberta, in December of all months; and I remember how excited I was to have snow that actually stuck to the ground. The excitement, however, wore off all too quickly.

When it is so cold that the snowbanks freeze and you can stand on top of them; and the wind picks up dry snow and whips it in your face like sand; and the minute you walk outside you can feel your constantly running nose stop dripping because it has frozen instead, well, then it's too cold to do anything fun.

Making snow angels and building snowmen don't sound appealing. Snowball fights and snow forts don't even cross your mind. Sledding and ice skating are absolute no-gos.

Recess, once my favorite subject in school, became my least favorite time of the day. I hated bundling up to go outside. Sweaters, coats, snow pants, long johns, extra socks, boots, gloves, mittens, scarves, tuques; I wore it all. And I could hardly move. And I hated it. Recess just wasn't fun anymore. We were supposed to have inside days if the temperature dropped too far below -20°C (-4°F). The problem was they, meaning the school district, never seemed to the wind chill factor into account. I spent many recesses jumping up and down behind huge snowballs that we'd roll to block the wind just so we could keep warm.

I don't think I ever warmed up after that first winter in Alberta. Want evidence?

My favorite place to eat ice cream is at home so that I can sit on the heater vent with my legs pulled up inside an oversized T-shirt. Need more?

I moved to Russia when I was 18, much to the shock my mother, to teach English. Russia is obviously cold, and although I hate the cold I am no stranger to it and knew I could handle it. I went with a group of girls, several of whom were from Arizona. The first week we got there they were thrilled about the snow and asked me to join them outside to build a snowman and throw snowballs. I refused and when they asked why I told them that they would see. Soon they all learned to hate the snow as much as I. Why? Because it's cold and cold is awful.

I now live in Cairo, Egypt. Today it was over 20°C (about 70°F) and I am freezing. If I lived in Alberta this would be the equivalent of a beautiful early summer day. But out here? It's cold. I'm wearing a long sleeve shirt and a fleece jacket. And I can't get enough hot apple cider. And I'm cold. My nose is cold and my toes are cold and I have goosebumps on my arms.

Perhaps I should turn on the heater. But that silly Canadian inside of me keeps telling me to suck it up, that I should be enjoying this weather in shorts and a t-shirt, not snuggled up on the couch with a blanket and book. I suppose I'll need these "cold" memories to battle the upcoming summer. At least it's not snowing.

***Written, a little apprehensively, for Scribbit at Andrew's behest. I'm always a little nervous to write "on topic."

Flashback Friday: He peed on my boot

One thing that I like about living in the Middle East is the profound respect that men have for women, especially mothers. I've had a few bad experiences with Arab men, but only a few. Mostly I've found them to be quite courteous.

Perhaps that's because I've never been single in the Middle East and have been able to avoid confrontations and marriage proposals by pointing to my ring and announcing that I'm already taken. Perhaps it's because I usually go out with Rachel and blame her for all the extra whistles and attention we get on the street.

I can deal with looks, and whistles, and cat calls, and kissy noises. None of that really bothers me because I've never really been harassed. They call out their silly little names, "Hello, beautiful!" and then leave me alone. Really, who can complain about being called beautiful and then being left alone.

Maybe I'm just a good scowler, but I've rarely actually been pursued. Women are, gratefully, an untouchable commodity here. I did not find that to be the case in Russia.

Russia is much more hands-on, in general. Take the metro, for example. It gets crowded here in Cairo, but I rarely bump shoulders with anyone. In Moscow there are times when you actually can lift your feet off the ground and remain standing. The busses in Russia also seem to be more crowded than they are here, although I've never ridden a bus here more people seem to be sitting than standing. In Russia the reverse would probably be true.

Back in Voronezh, Staci and I were crammed onto a little mashrutka--one of those sardine-can busses--on our way to the missionaries' apartment so that Staci could give Elder Romney a haircut. I'm not sure why he wanted a haircut because, from what I can remember, he wasn't exactly in desperate need of one. He could have used implants before he could have used a haircut.

But we were going to give him a haircut anyway because we liked to hang out in the missionaries' apartment.

That might sound scandalous, but it's not. Elder Romney lived with Sister Romney and they were one of the sweetest couple missionaries ever.

The bus was already crowded when it pulled up and we fought our way through the crowd to get on, leaving several tens of people to wait for the next bus. We had an appointment to keep, afterall, and it was towards the end of my Russia experience and I was getting really good at pushing.

At each stop the bus seemed to get fuller and fuller. We were all smashed up against the windows and each other. The door could only close if we all stepped in unison to one side and allowed it to slide shut before exhaling and shuffling around, completely rendering the door useless once more. We rearranged ourselves at each stop, inching our way closer to the door as our stop arrived, but moving away from it to let more people on.

It's kind of like fighting the tide at the ocean. You just can't win.

Just before our stop, a man ended up very close to me, which isn't exactly uncommon. He was unnecessarily drunk, which also isn't exactly uncommon. And he touched me, which was unavoidable given our present poximity. How he touched, though, was a little innappropriate.

He put his arm around my shoulder.

I glared at him and pushed his hand off.

He slid it down my back and then goosed me.

Staci and I both glared at him this time and I muttered something that I hoped sounded threatening.

Apparently it didn't sound threatening enough because he followed us off the bus and stood at the bus stop with us. We were supposed to be waiting for Elder Romney to pick us up. I'm not sure what the Gooser thought he was supposed to be doing.

Staci and I moved to stand behind the bus stop to give us some physical separation from the Gooser. This was one of the fancier, more official bus stops in Voronezh and actually had a little roof and some thin sheet metal walls, standing a few inches off the ground (for an idea of what I'm talking about, see here). Thin metal isn't much of a physical barrier, but at least it offered some isolation. Isolation from the wind howling off the river, and isolation from creepy Russian men.

So, there we were, waiting for Elder Romney to come for us, hoping that he would be on time and trying to figure out if either of us remembered how to get to his apartment building so that we could get away from the Gooser, who apparently was going no where.

And that's when it happened.

We heard a hissing sound and looked around to see what it was. It seemed to be coming from the ground. Yes, yes...right about where our feet were. We looked down in time to see a stream of urine hitting my boot, leaving a steaming puddle at my feet.

It was quite shocking. We stood there with our mouths agape, staring at my boot, for several minutes before either of us could speak.

"Did he just...?" I stammered.

"I think he did..." Staci answered.

The Gooser somehow managed to pee under the bus stop wall and directly onto my boot. How he managed to do this will forever remain a mystery. It had to have been carefully aimed because it was quite a tricky shot, really. I mean, how did he avoid hitting the bench?

He must have felt that peeing on me leveled the playing field--I'd shunned him and he peed on me, so we're even, right?--because after he was finished he snickered and swaggered drunkenly down the street.

Elder Romney came for us soon after the drunken, nonparuretic Gooser had disappeared from sight.

Staci cut his hair while I chatted with Sister Romney and then we went home. Only this time we faced the cold and walked. We weren't ready to deal with any more Russian men at the moment. Besides, my boot barely had time to dry off.

Flashback Friday: My Worst Bus Ride Ever

***Note: Flashback Friday is my friend Bridget's idea. I've decided to hop on the band wagon, even so far as to join in on her current theme: flashbacks from Russia.***

During the ride back to Cairo from Hurghada, I couldn’t help but reminisce on the worst bus ride I’ve ever had. Granted, this last bus ride was pretty awful, but nothing can compare with one of the bus rides I took home to Voronezh from Moscow. Both included squishiness, a lot of stopping, and late hours, but the Moscow bus ride was far, far worse.

Our visas in Russia only lasted for 90 days, so at the end of those 90 days we had to leave the country in order to renew our visas for another 90 days. Since our expiration date happily coincided with spring break we planned an extensive trip through the Baltics, hitting up Latvia, Finland, and Sweden. Perhaps that doesn’t sound very extensive, but we were poor and only had 10 days so it was as extensive as we got.

Tiffany was in charge of setting up our buses to and from Moscow. Her host family owned or co-owned a bus company and had helped us set up a trip to Moscow in the past. So we all gave Tiffany our money and she purchased our tickets for us. The rest of our trip was set up by the “cultural coordinator” in Moscow since she was helpful and Nina, our Voronezh cultural coordinator, was not. She emailed us our itinerary, complete with dates, directions, and warnings.

Everything went off without a hitch. We rode into Moscow and caught our bus to Latvia and after a pleasant ride found our way to a cute little hostel overlooking a fruit market. After we’d been dragged through more bureaucracy at the embassy than I’d care to mention, including being forced to use forged insurance cards, and had successfully renewed our visas, we spent the remainder of our time wandering around the city, enjoying the parks, and watching the changing of the guard.

From there we headed off on a cruise up to Sweden and then to Finland. We saw some sights, bought some souvenirs, and headed home. The ferry ride back was rather choppy, but overall it was a nice trip.

…Until we got back into Moscow and presented our bus tickets to the bus driver to get on the redeye bus back to Voronezh.

He refused to let us get on the bus and wasn’t able to communicate to us why. We insisted that our tickets were valid and he insisted that they were not. Finally, with a lot of help from Esther, we were able to figure out that our tickets had been valid for that same bus, only last week. Somehow our tickets had been purchased 3 days apart instead of 10 days apart—quite an impossible mistake on our part since Tiff didn’t speak Russian at the time and merely pointed to dates on the calendar when she purchased the tickets. Somewhere, though, there had been a major mix up.

Before pulling away, the bus driver helped us all get seats on another bus. A rather unfortunate looking bus, but one that would let us get home.

The bus was full of men. It was old, cramped, smelly and dirty. It was not the nice charter bus we were expecting. Most of the available seats were at the front of the bus and wouldn’t lean back no matter how hard we tried. But, as our motto went, it was all part of the experience…so we took our seats. Michelle and I shared a seat right behind the bus driver. Esther and Stephanie (I think) were sitting across the aisle from us. The rest of the girls were scattered around us. None of us were very comfortable, but at least we were on our way home.

Since our seats wouldn’t lean back, Michelle and I took turns sleeping on each other’s shoulders. Sleep was almost impossible. The bus stopped almost every half hour on the dot so that the men could all get out of the bus, relieve themselves, and have a smoke. We never stopped at a rest stop, so the 8 of us were stuck on the bus, holding our pee, and giving the men privacy. At the end of each pit stop, the men would file back on the bus dirtier, drunker, and smellier than before.

In addition to all the stops, the road was quite bumpy. It was April and the snow was just beginning to melt, revealing that the road was made up of more potholes than actual road. Furthermore, the highways there (like the highways here) are really only wide enough for one vehicle in parts so we had to keep swerving to avoid head-on collisions with other vehicles.

With all the stopping and swerving and bumping, and with our seats not leaning back, and with the smell of drunk men, sleep was really quite impossible. Many of us were beginning to wonder if they wouldn’t put in a movie if we asked them nicely.

As I mentioned, this was not a nice charter bus. So instead of having cute little TV stands every few rows we had one giant TV rigged up precariously, balancing on a board, just above where Michelle and I were seating. It was easily a 24 inch screen, perhaps even a 30 inch one (and maybe even bigger), so everyone in the bus would have been able to see the movie, at least as easily as you can see a movie in those miniature screens that nice charter busses have.

We were too afraid to ask, though, so instead we took turns napping. It so happened that it was my turn to use Michelle for a pillow and I was dozing off uncomfortably when the bus suddenly braked and swerved. There was a tremendous crash. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Something was crushing me and everything was dark. I thought for sure that we had been in a terrible accident and that I was dying.

Esther’s screams confirmed my suspicions.

“She’s going to DIE! Someone help her! Get it off her! She’s going to DIE! She’s going to DIE! She’s going to DIE!”

I can’t remember what she was screaming, exactly, but I do remember hearing, “She’s going to DIE!” over and over again.

And then things started to settle down. The interior lights flicked on, the bus slowed down and stopped, and the assistant bus driver ran over and hauled that great-big-honkin’ television off of me. The rest of the bus ride went along as smoothly as before. We continued to stop every few minutes so that the chain-smoking men could fuel their addiction and it took us much longer to get home than we had planned.

I couldn’t laugh for weeks; not that there wasn’t anything to laugh about, but anything more than simply breathing was painful. Lucky for Michelle, I had been sitting sideways in my seat and had taken the brunt of the force on my right shoulder—the television had me absolutely pinned from my head to my waist. Lucky for me, Esther had enough wits about her to start screaming.

Even though “She’s going to DIE!” wasn’t exactly what I wanted to be hearing when I thought I was dying (just for future reference), I’m glad she was screaming, because I couldn’t. So, thanks, Es!

And that’s the story of my worst bus ride ever. I hope to never top it. In fact, I’d be fine if the rest of my bus rides were comfortable and crisis-free. I doubt that will happen, but it would be nice.

O Pоссия!

I can't believe how long ago it was that I went to Russia to teach English. It's been a long time. Esther, Stephanie and I all have since graduated from BYU with our bachelor's degrees. Stephanie is now working on her master's degree. Michelle, Staci, Emily, Esther, Natalie, and I have all gotten married and a lot of us have children now, too!

Esther's little guy is over a year old. Rachel is right on his heels. Staci is almost ready to have her second one! Emily is expecting her first.

Rachel and Robby

Stephanie is engaged. Tiffany just got off the mission (to Novosibirsk) 6 weeks ago (and I don't want to spread any rumors but she is here visiting her boyfriend so glean from that what you will).

It just doesn't seem possible that all those things could happen in the short time we've been back. But I guess we haven't really been back for just a short time. It's been like 4 years!

Since Tiffany was in town, she and Esther (and Rob and Robby) came over to our house for pizza and to reminisce about the past and talk about the future. It worked out well. We figured that it would be more fun for Rachel and Robby to play while we ate than it would be for them to have to behave at a restaurant.

Tiffany said the prayer on the food in Russian. Her accent is stellar. I understood everything she said, and I could say everything she said, but I couldn't possibly say it as well as she said it. Ah, if only singing hymns once a week in church could keep my language skills up. Unfortunately that just doesn't seem to be doing the trick.

It was so fun to spend some time with Tiff and Es. I am so jealous of everyone going to Steph's wedding! Three days! I'm missing it by three days! You all better send me lots of pictures and take detailed notes of everything that's going on! I miss our sleepovers, even if we were all squished on two beds, a couch, and a chair in a musty apartment with the wallpaper falling off the walls and cigarette smoke wafting up through the bathroom floor. I miss it all!

Me and Rachel, Tiffany, Esther and Robby

I miss running over the river, smelling the lilacs, walking up the dingy stairs to the top floor because there was no elevator, and checking to see if they had any fluffy pillow cereal at the Five-store.

I miss singing in the branch choir, teaching our kids, eating mystery meat for lunch and watching for gypsies in the market.

I miss slogging through snow to catch the 16B, and then walking the short distance through the trees to my apartment. I miss playing dominoes with Alosha. It was the only game he had. That and face cards. We played Spoons a lot.

I miss watching Russian music videos and TV game shows that I never really understood. I miss watching DVDs where one person does the voices for all the characters. I miss waiting for all the kids going to swiming lessons to tramp through our classroom. I miss talking about books in the Basic Reading classroom.

I miss everything.

Plot Spoiler Follows

I'm currently reading No god but God by Reza Aslan. It's another one of Andrew's textbooks. He is so erudite when he talks politics and Islamic history. I am pitifully ignorant in these topics and am trying to catch up...by reading his textbooks. After all, if we do end up moving out to the Middle East for an extended period of time it would probably be helpful to have a more well-rounded understanding of their culture so that I don't have to learn everything firsthand.

Learning things firsthand can be extremely painful and difficult.

Secondhand knowledge is perfect for developing a background on a subject, which is what I'm kind of doing. I'm still so far behind Andrew I fear I will never catch up, which I think is alright. Our household doesn't really need two Middle East history buffs, right?

We were discussing this book as we were getting ready for bed last night and I posed the rather benighted question of,

"So, why do they [Muslims] still care about Mecca?"

I'm only in chapter three, obviously.

"Because it has the ka'ba," Andrew answered, looking at me like I wasn't the same person who followed him out to live in the Middle East just a few months after our marriage.

"I know," and I did know that, but I didn't know the history surrounding it, "but didn't the prophet Muhammad denounce it?"

Andrew sighed a big sigh.

Sheesh. I'm only in chapter three, I tell you, give me a break! We can't all be MESA majors!

"He did," he told me, a little exasperated, "But then they go back to Mecca and he casts out all the idols and makes it holy."

He then sighed dramatically again and added sardonically, "And now I've ruined the whole story for you!"

Admittedly, the book is well written. Aslan flows easily between narrative and academic language. It's been a pleasant read thus far, but I'm not sure I would describe it as a gripping tale, not exactly. Furthermore, I don't think squishing decades of history into one sentence really qualifies as a "plot spoiler." It is history, after all.

Then again, I don't mind a spoiled plot. If every book I read, every movie I watched, every moment in my life I've wondered about, had been "spoiled" for me, I think I would still be a happy person. I am one to skip to the end of the book just to make sure things turn out alright before I continue; I constantly talk through movies, pressing Andrew for information even if he hasn't seen it before himself; and I really, really, really just want that letter from grad school so we know what we'll be doing with the next few years of our life. I just like to be well-informed, I guess.

Other people aren't so keen on knowing what's going on. Andrew lives with my curiosity, at times feeding the fire by refusing to give away a plot and forbidding me to flip to the end of the book or look up the movie plot on Wikipedia. Other times he gives in and quenches the fire, as he did last night. He doesn't really like to know a storyline before he gets into a movie or book though, and often finds himself having to plug his ears and hum if my mom happens to want to give me the rundown on the newest Bollywood flick.

I guess I just focus better if I know what's going to happen and he focuses better if he doesn't.

Anyway, our conversation last night brought me back to a time long ago in a land far, far away. In fact, it took me right back into the Basic Reading classroom of the English Wing of a small Elementary school in Voronezh, Russia.

Back: Michelle, Staci, Me, Emily, Esther

Front: Tiffany, Michelle, Natalie, Bethany, Stephanie

When class was not in session, either before school or when Olga and Sveta were setting out our lunch, the Basic Reading classroom was one of our places of sanctuary. It was there that we would finalize our lesson plans, type drafts of emails on the ancient computers (if we dared risk turning them on), and discuss the novels that we had been passing around.

On this particular day, I was discussing The Nanny Diaries with Emily, I believe, and several other teachers were in the room. Esther heard me begin to retell the part where "the little boy almost dies" and she surprised me by whirling around and telling me to stop.

She hadn't read it yet and didn't want to know anything about the plot.

This was surprising because I had never really had anyone tell me that they hadn't wanted to know about a plot. Leaving for Russia was my first time leaving home--and in my home plots were free-for-all. I was a little hurt by her reaction, partly because I hadn't meant to offend her and partly because it seemed to me like she thought I had meant to. See, learning firsthand can hurt!

Well, my humor has always been a little waggish--I'm a sucker for situational irony--so I could barely contain myself when just a few minutes later the conversation turned to the Book of Mormon and Staci remarked,

"I just got to the part where Lehi dies."

"What?!?" I gasped, "You mean he dies!?"

Of course, I knew he dies; I had read the Book of Mormon several times before moving to Russia, I read it a few times there, have read it several times after, and plan on reading it many times more.

I found my joke hilarious...but I'm not sure if anyone else did. At least the experience helped me to become a more well-rounded person and learn to not take plot-spoiling so lightly. I think I've come a long way since then--I'm down to asking a question every 10 minutes during a movie instead of every 5, which I'm sure Andrew really appreciates.

Grad School and Visa Pictures

Tonight we finished up Andrew's application for The American University in Cairo. I say "we" because really, once you're a couple, there is no "I" anymore. He'll be doing all the studying, it's true but Rachel and I will be going along with him, wherever he ends up going, so it definitely involves "us."

I took his visa pictures (because we're too cheap to get them done professionally). I proofread his essays (over and over and over again). I wrote on his application so that it would be legible (his hand writing is so bad that he really should consider becoming a doctor). He did everything else: Wrote the essays, revised the essays, told me what to write on the application, got letters of recommendation and transcripts, got an HIV test, etc., etc., etc.

There are actually a lot of hoops to jump through in order to apply for grad school, especially if you're going foreign. But we're finally ready to send it off through the trusty USPS (Andrew's going to mail it tomorrow morning).

Now all we have to do is anxiously await our letter, which will hopefully be one of acceptance. We really hope to get in even though we have no idea how we're going to pay for this whole adventure. We applied for three scholarships and will probably have to take out a Stafford Loan--anyone who has any experience with such things (loans) is welcome to share because we have no clue what we're doing!

We're just due for an adventure, I think. We haven't used our passports in quite a while and they keep calling out to me. Since we'll have to get Rachel a passport we tried taking some passport pictures of her after we took Andrew's visa pictures. Have you ever tried to get a six month old baby to sit still and look directly into the camera without shoving her hands in her mouth? It's pretty tricky, let me tell you, but I think that a few of them turned out alright.

Looking at our passports and thinking about visas reminded me of some experiences we had getting ID and visa pictures abroad.

When I lived in Russia we had to renew our visas at the embassy in Latvia. Since we (all the girls traveling with me) had used our remaining passport pictures for the student IDs issued at the university sponsoring us we had to get new pictures taken for our visa applications. We went in small groups to a studio and took turns having our pictures taken with a rather forward photographer. He only promised to take mine and Emily's pictures if we gave him Esther's phone number. I don't actually remember if we gave him the real number or if we thought to give him a fake number (did he ever call you, Es?).

Our photographer kept prompting us to "look normal," which we kept insisting we did. Finally he asked us to look a little more sad. Apparently you aren't supposed to look happy that your visa is getting renewed or something.

Anyway, when we got our pictures back they looked pretty dreadful--airbrushed and saturated and gross. The black and white one on the left is my visa picture from Russia.

(L to R: Nancy's Russia visa, Andrew's Jordan ID, Andrew's Egypt visa, Nancy's passport, Nancy's Jordan ID, Rachel's passport)

The ones in the middle were the pictures we had taken for our student ID cards at the University of Jordan. The photographers treated us like artwork and kept asking us to tilt our heads up, down, left, right; step forward, step back, smile a little more, a little less, a little more, perfect... I think they took a little more time composing my shot. And you will notice that, while Andrew's picture looks like a mere snapshot, mine is softened and all my blemishes have disappeared. If I'm not mistaken my cheeks are even a little rosier than usual. They gave me twice as many wallet-size photos as Andrew, as well as a bigger one in a cute little cardboard frame--for the same price that Andrew got four pictures. I'm not sure that either of my foreign pictures would be accepted in the United States as a passport photo.

I am hoping, however, that they accept Rachel's passport photo. It's always a gamble, taking the picture by yourself, and I'm worried that the dimensions aren't right because her head is so big compared to the rest of her body that it seemed more difficult to achieve the same result than when working with an adult subject. She squirmed more, she looked everywhere but at the camera, she kept trying to eat her hands, and her smile was either too big or non-existent. I think that she turned out looking really cute, though!

Blue Bowls and Banana Bread

Disclaimer: If my posts don't make any sense, it is because my thoughts have also ceased to make any sense.

Josie is hanging out with me tonight. Andrew is working until midnight so I would be otherwise all alone. Mom is working late, Patrick is working late, and Dad is taking a night class (Josie thinks), so she would be otherwise all alone. Instead we're being alone together.

So, we made banana bread. This seems to be something that I make in my house a lot. The reason why is simple. I can't eat bananas fast enough. Really, it's true. I like my bananas before they are fully ripe. They can't be completely green, but if they are all the way yellow I can't stand to eat them. So, I end up freezing a lot of bananas to make into bread. Our freezer is a little bit full, so I figured that I could use up the half dozen bananas that have been accumulating over the winter and turn them into something scrumptious.


First I had to choose a bowl, which was easy. I always use a blue bowl to mix things. I have a big one for making big things, and a small one for mixing small ones. This is a tradition carried over from where I really learned how to cook on my own: Russia.

In Russia, at our "hang out" apartment (aka: head teacher's apartment), we had a blue Tupperware bowl. And a pot. And a lid that didn't fit the pot. And some muffin tins. A can opener that didn't open anything very well at all. 7 plastic plates that matched. 1 glass plate that didn't match anything, and that I later smashed into a billion pieces on a random sidewalk (oops!). Random utensils. Some cups. And that was about it. Perhaps we had a little bit more, as you can see from the picture, but I really am holding the oven door open because it only had one hinge.

Our Kitchen in Russia

(that's the extent of it--the fridge is about a foot behind me)

My friend, Emily, and I would make all sorts of things in that kitchen. I'm not really sure how because we didn't have a lot to work with and neither one of us had had any experience with gas stoves...Anyway, we used the blue mixing bowl for virtually everything we made. You can see it in the picture. It's on the window sill that served as our one and only cupboard, on the back right-hand side.

When Emily got married, I gave her a blue bowl so that she could still cook. When I got married, she returned the favor and gave me the big blue bowl that Josie is using. And, when we moved to Jordan and left our big blue bowl behind and had nothing in which to mix anything...we went to our nearest Safeway and bought a blue mixing bowl, which I insisted we take home with us (that's our small blue mixing bowl).

*****

After choosing a bowl, I had to choose a recipe to semi-follow, which proved more difficult since I can never remember which recipes I've tried and whether or not I liked them. We finally settled on a recipe and started mixing away. Our recipe didn't call for walnuts, apples, cinnamon, or nutmeg, but we put those ingredients in anyway.

Yummy!

The bread isn't done yet, but Josie tasted the batter. "Ummmm..." she said, "Tastes like bananas." Sarcastically, I replied, "Oh, what a surprise! I wonder why they call it banana bread if it tastes like bananas." To which Josie replied, "You know greasy people? Are they always called Nick?"

I'm trying to teach her Grice's Maxim of Relevance, which is stated rather simply: "Be relevant." Her statement was not relevant. I told her so. "Josie," I said, "I have no idea what you're talking about. That has nothing to do with banana bread."

Apparently, although it had nothing to do with banana bread, it did have something to do with why we call things by certain names, which is kind of what we were talking about, kind of. I guess I brought it up.

"You know," she insisted, although I didn't, "Greasy people. Like...I don't know what to call them, but they're always called Nick."

"I'm going to need a bit more than that. What are "greasy" people?"

She sighed heavily, "I told you! I don't know what to call them. Greasy people. Grecians....greekites...people from Greece."

"Oh," I said, "I don't think they're all named Nick."

"But a lot. In My Big Fat Greek Wedding, all the cousins are named 'Nick' or 'Nicki,' and in lots of other movies, too."

"Sure," I said, "A lot of them are named Nick. I don't know how many, but some are, apparently."

At least that conversation is over. It was a little awkward.