"There's this woman," said Ariel on Thursday night of the first week. "I've never seen her before, but apparently she wants us to put on an English Day carnival all of next Wednesday, with you know, booths and skits and things. We have a meeting with her tomorrow night at 6."
"Six?" I said. "I can't. I just can't, I'm catching the train to Moscow!"
Ariel blinked. "Well, I suppose I could always go alone and then text you about it later," he said, in that mild way of certain British men, where you can never tell if they're being nice or just incredibly passive-aggressive.
But I ended up attending the meeting anyway, just to see what kind of hoops they were going to make us jump through this time. We showed up at the administration building and were ushered into a back office. There was Alexander Borisovich, an unidentified older woman off in the corner, and Olga. Olga was a youngish woman with a short, bad haircut, and a stripey sweater vest. She beamed when she saw us.
"Please, please, sit down!" she said in Russian, gesturing at the lumpy old couch, so Ariel and I sank awkwardly into the couch while she and Alexander Borisovich loomed over us. The latter apparently hadn't showered all week – he was still in the shirt he'd been wearing on Sunday, and the greasy sweat rolled out of his hair. Discreetly, I leaned out of range.
Olga took out of sheaf and papers and clutched them to her chest. "Privyet Ari, privyet - ?"
"Leely," said the other woman, stirring herself. That was her one contribution: she wouldn't say another word for the rest of the meeting.
"So," Olga said, still in Russian – she didn't speak any English – "So, Ari and Lily, we will have English Day, a celebration of English language and culture! You of course will lead this celebration, there will be booths and station games and in the evening each children's house must perform something, perhaps a song, a skit -?"
She looked at Ariel, who took out the list of haphazard ideas we had come up with on the way to the meeting.
"Yes, of course," he said – conveniently, he spoke fluent Russian. "We thought the youngest ones could do a nursery rhyme – Humpty Dumpty? Do you know Humpty Dumpty?"
Olga looked dubious.
Alexander Borisovich nodded enthusiastically. "Very good, very famous children's poem," he reassured her.
"Well, then, lovely," Olga said. "Lily can do this with her 3rd House, the smallest ones. And the 6th House, and the 7th?" They were the 8 to 10 year olds.
"Maybe a song?" Ariel said. "We thought, something popular, something that they can dance to."
"How about Lady Gaga?" I said. "They love Lady Gaga."
"Yeah, or Beyonce," said Ariel.
Olga frowned. "No, no, this is no good. We need something…more classical, yes?"
"OK," said Ariel. "What about Queen?"
"Much better," she said, scribbling it down on a piece of paper. "And finally, the oldest students. What to do with them?"
"Perhaps theater?" Ariel said. "An act from a play, adapted? I have some modernized Shakespeare that my girlfriend sent me…"
She clasped her hands in delight. "Shakespeare! How wonderful! How perfect! Or…what about Pushkin? Should we train the children to memorize a translation of Pushkin? Or perhaps Chekhov? Can you make a translation of Chekhov for our English Day? You can write it this weekend…"
"I think," Ariel said, diplomatically "we should stick to English authors."
"Right, right, you're very right," she said. "Yes! It will truly be an English Day!"
"OK," Alexander Borisovich interceded. "That's the skits taken care of. Now about the carnival booths…"
"Oh no," Olga said. "We're not finished yet! The children will of course need costumes. We'll need Romeo, Juliet, capes, swords….You can do this, yes, Lily and Ariel?"
I looked at Ariel and Ariel looked at me.
"Costumes?" said Alexander Borisovich. "Costumes, psshh, in my opinion they will not be necessary."
"We'll see what we can do," Ariel said. "Now the booths…"
"I thought, a game," said AB in English. "I don't know how to call it. There are four, heehee, excuse my word, pricks, and you must throw a circle thing, and it touches the pricks, and when you miss you must pay forfeit by speaking something in English, perhaps rhyme or tongue-twister."
"A ring toss," I supplied.
"Yes," said AB. "That. And many games, perhaps geography trivia, questions about England and America, culture, things of that sort."
"In English, of course," said Olga in Russian. "So much better that way!"
"Surely not!" said AB. "English culture – then everyone can play, not just those who speak the best English."
"All right, all right," Olga said. "If you must. Now about rehearsals…"
"No, wait," said AB. "I am trying to remember…Two years we had a game, a very good game. I was a pirate, and I had two women in bondage. With every question the children answered we unwrapped them a little more, first the arms, then…"
"Yes, yes," Olga said, "We'll decide more about games later. But the rehearsals…"
After much haggling, we established that rehearsals would be held for class the following week, and then followed a period of arguing about mundane details, which I tuned out, using my poor Russian as an excuse. At last we were dismissed.
"All this," said Ariel. "By Wednesday? I mean – honestly! Well, at least we have the weekend to prepare."
"Terrible," I said. "That woman is out of her time. She should have organized Pioneer parades for Stalin…But now, if you'll excuse me…"
Pausing only to grab my bag, I caught the 8 PM train and fled to my friends in Moscow, and I didn't think about English Day again until Monday morning.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Life at Camp: Part I
As noted, I had some misgivings about Dubravushka and now I can report that…they were entirely justified. Yet, the difficulties have a certain refreshing unpredictability about them. For instance, I was expecting to be put up in some miserable apartment miles out of town – that's normal. I was not expecting to be escorted up to the top floor of the schoolhouse and handed the keys to an empty classroom. There was a blue couch, several creepy English posters, and a photograph of Queen Elizabeth next to the chalkboard.
My guide, the school secretary, ushered me in.
"Look, it's very good, there is TV – " she tried the TV, but since it was an ultra modern TV with no remote control and no manual buttons, nothing happened. "And radio – " but the radio didn't work.
"Well, best part –" she said, undeflated – "is, other girl teacher never come, so all for you! Very big room!" She stretched out her arms for emphasis.
"Yes," I said, dropping my things on the floor next to a bookshelf. 'Yes, you can definitely say that about it."
"And now, I think, we should go to dining hall. Please, follow me."
We went back downstairs and down the path to a rambling white building close by.
It was quite a pretty campus. 'Dubravushka' has roots in the Russian words for 'oak' and there were oaks everywhere, beautiful spready ones overhanging the paths. Scattered around were white concrete bungalows that served as housing for the children. I was surprised at the size of the camp – it was only 1 or 2 acres total, more like a compound. Adding to this feeling, there was a spiked iron fence all around the perimeter.
I stared at this fence and fought a feeling of irrational claustrophobia. Now that I was in, would they ever let me out? This being Russia, maybe I could bribe a guard?
We went into the dining hall, and here was another surprise – we were going to be fed. Maybe this sounds like a bonus, but I think most adults with their own kitchens would agree with me: it's better to cook what you like, when you like, than be subject to the culinary whims of a stern-faced Slav who pushes across to you, at designated times, a pre-measured portion of whatever she damn well feels like serving, usually something she scraped out of a kettle, or off her shoe, or something.
In this case, it was watery potato soup, with some sprigs of dill floating on top for garnish. For a side, a slab of cold stale bread – no butter, no condiments. And sweet tea.
That's how the meals went at Dubravushka. Soup for lunch, plain mashed potatoes with a small unseasoned piece of meat thrown on top, or plain cold spaghetti topped with a slice of bologna for lunch, and then soup for dinner. Stale bread at every meal. Sometimes a plate of raw cucumbers of tomatoes for veg. It was tolerable. The worst meal was buckwheat kasha, a kind of chemical starch, with something chunky poured over it that in smell and texture resembled nothing so much as hot Alpo. They served this twice a week, on average. Breakfast was OK – cream of wheat, cereal, coffee (Mondays and Fridays only), watery tea the rest of the time. One time they got fancy and created a kind of bitter, leathery cheesecake product with Ѕ c of condensed milk poured over it – this was repulsive and nobody touched it.
I'd like to say that all this was fantastically healthy as well as character-building, but unfortunately, since it was nothing but salt, potatoes, and pasta, I don't think you can take a moral lesson from it. The Russians are just lousy cooks, that's all.
The first week of teaching was exhausting and chaotic. I was teaching eight classes a day, starting at 9 AM and ending at 6:45…80 6 to 10 year olds, a screaming waterfall of children. They all adored me– getting them to come to class wasn't a problem, it was usually harder to chase out the ones who didn't belong – but there were just so goddamn many of them. Ariel taught at the other school, so I could go all day without ever speaking a coherent sentence to an another adult – unless I ran into Alexander Borisovich, our English-speaking administrator liaison. If he spied me crossing campus, he would rush up, rubbing his hands, looking delighted.
"Leely! I'm so glad I run into you! I have such good news! From today – right now – you will teach the 5th class at the other school. So – fourth class primary school, fifth class the high school!"
"But the high school is a quarter mile away," I said, "and I only have a 5 minute break between classes. I'll be late all the time – is that OK?"
"Of course! It is perfectly normal! Great, yes? Brilliant, as our British friends say!"
He was always so excited, and it was never, ever good news – or at least not what any sane person would consider good.
I tried to avoid Alexander Borisovich.
My guide, the school secretary, ushered me in.
"Look, it's very good, there is TV – " she tried the TV, but since it was an ultra modern TV with no remote control and no manual buttons, nothing happened. "And radio – " but the radio didn't work.
"Well, best part –" she said, undeflated – "is, other girl teacher never come, so all for you! Very big room!" She stretched out her arms for emphasis.
"Yes," I said, dropping my things on the floor next to a bookshelf. 'Yes, you can definitely say that about it."
"And now, I think, we should go to dining hall. Please, follow me."
We went back downstairs and down the path to a rambling white building close by.
It was quite a pretty campus. 'Dubravushka' has roots in the Russian words for 'oak' and there were oaks everywhere, beautiful spready ones overhanging the paths. Scattered around were white concrete bungalows that served as housing for the children. I was surprised at the size of the camp – it was only 1 or 2 acres total, more like a compound. Adding to this feeling, there was a spiked iron fence all around the perimeter.
I stared at this fence and fought a feeling of irrational claustrophobia. Now that I was in, would they ever let me out? This being Russia, maybe I could bribe a guard?
We went into the dining hall, and here was another surprise – we were going to be fed. Maybe this sounds like a bonus, but I think most adults with their own kitchens would agree with me: it's better to cook what you like, when you like, than be subject to the culinary whims of a stern-faced Slav who pushes across to you, at designated times, a pre-measured portion of whatever she damn well feels like serving, usually something she scraped out of a kettle, or off her shoe, or something.
In this case, it was watery potato soup, with some sprigs of dill floating on top for garnish. For a side, a slab of cold stale bread – no butter, no condiments. And sweet tea.
That's how the meals went at Dubravushka. Soup for lunch, plain mashed potatoes with a small unseasoned piece of meat thrown on top, or plain cold spaghetti topped with a slice of bologna for lunch, and then soup for dinner. Stale bread at every meal. Sometimes a plate of raw cucumbers of tomatoes for veg. It was tolerable. The worst meal was buckwheat kasha, a kind of chemical starch, with something chunky poured over it that in smell and texture resembled nothing so much as hot Alpo. They served this twice a week, on average. Breakfast was OK – cream of wheat, cereal, coffee (Mondays and Fridays only), watery tea the rest of the time. One time they got fancy and created a kind of bitter, leathery cheesecake product with Ѕ c of condensed milk poured over it – this was repulsive and nobody touched it.
I'd like to say that all this was fantastically healthy as well as character-building, but unfortunately, since it was nothing but salt, potatoes, and pasta, I don't think you can take a moral lesson from it. The Russians are just lousy cooks, that's all.
The first week of teaching was exhausting and chaotic. I was teaching eight classes a day, starting at 9 AM and ending at 6:45…80 6 to 10 year olds, a screaming waterfall of children. They all adored me– getting them to come to class wasn't a problem, it was usually harder to chase out the ones who didn't belong – but there were just so goddamn many of them. Ariel taught at the other school, so I could go all day without ever speaking a coherent sentence to an another adult – unless I ran into Alexander Borisovich, our English-speaking administrator liaison. If he spied me crossing campus, he would rush up, rubbing his hands, looking delighted.
"Leely! I'm so glad I run into you! I have such good news! From today – right now – you will teach the 5th class at the other school. So – fourth class primary school, fifth class the high school!"
"But the high school is a quarter mile away," I said, "and I only have a 5 minute break between classes. I'll be late all the time – is that OK?"
"Of course! It is perfectly normal! Great, yes? Brilliant, as our British friends say!"
He was always so excited, and it was never, ever good news – or at least not what any sane person would consider good.
I tried to avoid Alexander Borisovich.
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