Welcoming

(I’ll warn my regular readers—all four of you—that this is a long one. I was going to edit it, shorten it, but decided that there was nothing I wanted to leave out, so here it is.)

I’ve had a warm reception in Vladivostok. The Consulate staff, the church choir, the professional choir, patrons and employees at Art Etage, shopkeepers, neighbors and people on the street have all welcomed me in their own way.

I have turned to some of the Consulate staff to find out where to buy things like Douglas’s Christmas gift (pictured below), harder-to-find grocery items and face cream. The answers I got came with written instructions, pictures from Google street view, bus routes and brand names to try or avoid. This, I’ve learned is the nature of Vladivostokians. When I’ve asked for directions on the street, I have as often been walked to my destination as directed.

This is a podstakkanik. (It literally means "under glass," referring to the elaborate holder.) I saw a man at the Consulate drinking tea form one and commented to Douglas about how handsome it was. He agreed and said he wanted one. 

There is a house down the hill from us – we walk past it every time we walk to the Consulate – onto which a wall has recently been added. I’d started waving to the men out working. They waved back. One day, a man came out to greet me, in Russian, of course. I explained my Russian limitations. It turned out he spoke English. He was a visiting relative who was only there for the week. A couple weeks later, I walked by the house and heard a man yelling, Amerikanka! I looked up, and he said (in Russian) my relative was talking to you. We had a short exchange, and I walked away warmed. We had an in with each other and we grasped it to have a short conversation. More, hopefully, will follow. I haven’t seen him since the weather has turned to cold.

Sometimes, the way we're made to feel welcomed is by being treated as no different than the locals. Douglas and I were walking down what we refer to as the goat path (an unpaved road in great disrepair) to go into town. It had snowed and was a bit slippery. A man from up the hill yelled at Douglas calling him a hooligan for not holding my hand and helping me down the hill. He explained that he had offered and I'd rejected him. (I didn't want to slip and take Douglas down with me or vice-versa.) Douglas came over to me, took my hand and told me to hold it until we were out of sight of him! And I thought it was only the babushkas who commented on people's behavior in public.

The Russians have a saying that there's no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. This is me as I appear on the goat path to and from  the Consulate and church.

I've attended Bachata and salsa dance classes twice a week with an American friend. The instructor speaks a little English and wants to learn more. After a few classes, she asked me if I’d meet with her to talk so she could practice her English. I wanted to say no. I was committing more of my time with four Russian classes a week instead of two and choir rehearsals, and I wanted to keep up with my writing, exercise and music practice at home. But I said yes without hesitation, and I’m so glad I did. We met about an hour before class for what turned out to be a mutual show-and-tell session. Olga likes to read about quantum physics in her spare time. She also teaches music to children and dances in competitions. I wish you could see her face and hear her voice when I walk into class, Lora . . . she says and hugs me. I wish I could express the comfort I got out of her classes when I was going through a funk recently. I wanted to stay home, hole up and feel sorry for myself. I went to class instead and floated out of the room afterwards. (There will be no pictures of the dance classes. Ever.)

Music, we all know, is an international language and I am reminded of that when I sit and sing with the church choir or the professional choir. I met the director of the church choir at the Thanksgiving dinner at the Consul General’s residence. Sister Katarina, and the other sisters, are Americans. I started singing with the sisters in the choir and kept hearing talk of a professional choir. I asked Sister Maria Stella (the organist) for an introduction to the director. On a rainy evening in November, I was to meet her at the church (where the professional choir also practices). I arrived with one wet foot (I'd stepped in a puddle that was deeper than it looked), but Sister Maria Stella wasn’t there yet. I saw a woman who was eyeing me. I assumed she was the director, so I approached her, introduced myself and, as best I could, told her that, though I didn’t expect to start that night, I’d like to sing with her choir. (They had been rehearsing since October for a Christmas concert.) She stared at me a moment, then asked, “Why not tonight?” I didn’t have an answer to that, so I took the music she pushed at me, called Douglas and told him he was on his own for dinner and sat down to sing. One song we sang was in English, so I was a good resource for pronunciation. 

During the first rehearsal, I heard a woman behind me saying something over and over. Then she said, понимаете? (Do you understand?) Next thing I knew, an arm was reaching over my shoulder. The hand at the end of the arm pulled a few sheets of music out of one of the plastic sheet protectors in the folder I'd been given. All the music up to that point had been single sheets; for some reason, this entire song was in one protector and I hadn't noticed. I'm afraid I'm a bit high maintenance in rehearsal.

Alexander, a tenor in the choir who speaks English, made sure I knew that I could turn to him if I ever needed help during rehearsals. Katya, our rehearsal accompanist, comes up to me smiling and talking away in Russian in hopes I’d understand enough. Slava, who speaks some English, talks to me in hopes of improving his English. Vasili, who plays a Japanese instrument called a koto, is looking forward to a musical gathering at our house. I’ve never exchanged phone numbers so freely. I’m even considering getting on WhatsApp.

With that said, I want to talk about the other side of being welcomed: making myself someone they want to welcome. I can’t stand they myriad ways of keeping in touch. I don’t want to sit at this box checking email, blog comments (of which there are painfully few, by the way), twitter, texts and answer the phone and Skype when someone calls. How many ways do we really need, folks? I stood my ground in Munich, refusing to get onto Facebook. I remain glad of that. I came to Vladivostok with the determination that I was going to experiment living differently. I have more apps on my iPhone. I’m reluctantly texting, though I don't like it. No sir. I want to live up to this warm welcome and reciprocate by welcoming them into my life.

Saturday, December 29^th, I had a rehearsal at church for an upcoming ecumenical music festival. I found out that the next morning at church there was to be a funeral service. Sister Katarina asked me if I could show up early and sing for it. She also mentioned a memorial  luncheon (a pominki) i could attend after the noon mass. That sounded like a long day at church. I thought about it and decided that, since I was now part of this community, I’d act like it. At first, I felt like I may be a little out of place at the pominki. But the deceased was the twin sister of one of the altos in the choir; I had a connection. So, I made a small plate of food, showed up early and sang for the funeral, then the regular service and stayed for the pominki.

I sat with Sisters Fastina and Joanna. I was quite hungry. I’d eaten breakfast around 7AM and it was 2PM before we sat before a huge spread of food. I was told that the first dish served and eaten at a pominki was koliva. Koliva was traditionally made with boiled wheat, sugar, fruit and nuts. But during a famine, rice replaced the wheat and some traditions have continued to use rice. What we ate was white rice with chopped grapes. We watched the other end of the table, where the bereaved sat, for cues as to when to serve ourselves. The sisters were waiting for a prayer before eating. When you sit with the sisters, you must behave yourself. So I sat for about twenty minutes with plates of sausages, bread, cheese, fruit and vegetables awaiting a prayer. (I, myself, was already praying that my stomach wouldn't growl too loudly.) Eventually, Sister Fastina said we could eat; apparently there would be no prayer. We were served a hot bowl of borscht (which is pronounced borsh in Russian), red wine and vodka. There were long toasts given throughout the afternoon. I walked home from the six or so hours at the church feeling good about making myself an active part of the community in such a supportive way. I was giving back the welcome that had been extended to me.

While Douglas was in DC for a training, I invited Sisters Katarina, Maria Stella, Fastina and Joanna over for lunch. I showed them around the townhouse (the lighthouse!) first. We spent a good half hour in my room where the piano and harp are. We took turns playing for each other. We ate, then made spritz cookies together. They’d never made them and had so much fun. We watched four hours pass together. I was high with the excitement of having new friends. Like a child, I said “We should do this every Wednesday!” I look forward to learning more about the Catholic church and the commitment and lives of the sisters. I can tell you that these are four smart, talented women who sing beautifully together and, by their own devices, have learned the Russian language.

Between the sisters from the church and the employees at eh Consulate, I’m surrounded with strong, smart women. I anticipate that this will be a post of growth for me.

Douglas standing in front of the yolki in the main square in Vladivostok. New Year's is the big holiday in Russia, not Christmas. The Consulate observes local holidays as well as American holidays and is closed the entire first week of January. On Christmas day, I sang in a noon mass and had a rehearsal that evening, just another day.

There are a few signs of Christmas. The New Years trees (yolki) look Christmassy to my American eyes. Then there's this poor Santa who fell from  I don't know where.