Pushistaya Zima Letom - 6/9/07

It is late, and now finally dark. I went for a walk this evening. A faint stain of silver was still visible rising above the Western horizon just before midnight. It is Saturday, but I am staying in. Trying to burn the midnight oil on translating the speech I will be giving this Thursday at the seminar in Saratov. I am both incredibly excited and horribly nervous. I spent all day today alternately thinking about the seminar and writing this speech.

I had a nice moment while writing my speech. I was sitting in my living room, typing on my laptop, when I suddenly looked out the window. I hadn't done so for hours, and I suddenly saw hundreds of thousands of fluff balls rising slowly from the trees like ash from a fire, their cottoney white a stark contrast from the iron storm clouds hanging above the buildings across the yard, stoicly holding back their rain. I came to the window and opened it, and felt the cool air rush in. I looked down and saw that the entire yard enclosed by my building (one of the largest buildings in Samara) was filled with this fluff, hanging in the air. It was as though the whole yard, all it's trees and playgrounds and smaller buildings had just been submerged in some sort of gel, and the second I opened the window, the gel was replaced by cool air, and the little white particles that were previously suspended in the gel just kept on their way as if nothing had happened, slowly floating every which way, to spread the seed.


I went for a jog and saw that this this stuff not only filled the air, but filled every crevice in the asphalt, collected in little dry white puddles. I intentionally stepped in one of these puddles as I was jogging. The fluff quickly flew away as my foot stamped down. A larger-than-life footprint was left in its place.

The air was almost hard to breathe because of this stuff, but each successful breath brought the itch of delight. I felt good jogging, knowing that not only was I making progress on this speech, but that everything around me, all the interesting things I was getting to look at would soon be gone. My time left here is ticking away already, and I feel it all the time. This week is already shot, because I have to spend the whole time preparing for this seminar. When I get back, I'm going on a two day bike trip across the river with my German friend Sören. And then it will be my birthday. I will have one week to say goodbye to everyone and get ready for the arrival of my parents (and for moving back to the States).

I am excited but also sad to go. The heightened nature of everything will have to give way to the hum-drum of being a student. The intense struggle to find meaningful engagement in a community so inaccessible to me, the immense challenge of learning a language on top of the fascinating things I have learned about the interactions of HIV, Russian cultural understandings of health, and local socio-political systems, will all soon be replaced by learning my way around a new academic institution and the memorization of countless biochemical reactions.

But I am thankful for my experiences. Certainly this has been a difficult year. There have been times that I've wanted nothing more than to be at home, surrounded by my English speaking, time-tested friends and working within well-understood and reasonable expectations. But those times have all melded together into a few lessons about what not to do and how to deal with living abroad, and all the miriad rewards are starting to come into view. This has certainly been an irreplaceable adventure and I'm only beginning to be able to apply all the things I have learned. I am now starting to really know what I want to write about when I get back and have the time to sit down and put everything together. The ideas are all there and I just need to put them down and fit them together.

For now, though, I just need to get back to my translation so I can go to bed...