Russians do not know how to stand in line.
This fact came to my attention when we were on vacation, waiting for our turn to have our passports stamped at the port in Helsinki, Finland. Now, I'm not saying that Americans are experts in organization - but one thing we do know is that lines make things quicker. Or if not quicker, at least more bearable. You can estimate how long it'll take by how many people are ahead of you; no one's crowding; no one cuts ahead; things progress in a decent, orderly fashion.
Not so in this situation.
We were standing in a large, packed room, hot and stuffy (despite the icy temperature outside), with people going shoulder-to-shoulder, shuffling forward a few inches every now and again. There was seriously no way of knowing just when your turn would be - it was pretty much every man/woman for him/herself. Either you shoved your way forward, or waited in vain at the back of room with the rest of the spineless weaklings with un-sharp elbows.
Now, you might be thinking, 'What on earth do Russian lines and sharp elbows have to do with Thanksgiving?'. The answer to that is: nothing. Absolutely nothing. I just wanted to talk about Russian lines. Fun, isn't it? I thought so. Now I bet you're all a little more thankful for those oh-so-dreadful holiday lines at all those ritzy American grocery stores and supermarkets. Because, trust me, you have nothing to whine about.
Speaking of thanks, I had the privilege of celebrating Thanksgiving twice this year. There's irony for you - I celebrated Thanksgiving way more here, in Russia, where they don't celebrate it, than back home in the good ol' U.S of A. I find it funny mostly because all I was expecting was one small, personal little celebration with my roommates. Which I did have, mind you. But that comes later.
So, we were making plans for Thanksgiving. We knew that we would have to teach that day and so couldn't do anything too elaborate. This was a somewhat sobering thought to me, if only because I was starting to feel the painful little nigglings of homesickness creep up at the memory of the veritable feast we had back home in California every year, with all the delicious food and all my family there, talking and watching movies and just enjoying each other's company. That was my favorite part of Thanksgiving - and while we were still getting some good food, I knew that my favorite part wouldn't be there this year. So, my enthusiasm for the holiday was just a bit diminished when we went to the grocery store by the metro station to get our pie and ice cream.
In the end, we bought a pie-like blueberry pastry that I was a little apprehensive about trying (it was in a box. On a shelf. And the picture on the front looked waaaay too pristine. I just knew it was going to taste like sugar with a bit of artificial fruit flavoring mixed in.)
On Thanksgiving day, we gathered in one of the dorm rooms, with the heated up blueberry cookie-pie thing on the table and the ice cream in the freezer. We had a paper bag on the table as well - it was full of little bits of paper, onto which everyone had written one thing they were thankful for. I suddenly realized that I hadn't put any in myself. So, I borrowed a pen and quickly scribbled down the one thing that stuck in my head when I thought of what I was thankful for, and threw it into the bag.
We started eating, and the pie- thing actually turned out to be pretty decent. As one of my roommates observed, it tasted like a blueberry Pop Tart. Which was only a few steps above my sugar-and-flavoring analysis, but hey, it was still good.
While we ate, each of us took a turn reading one of the slips of paper from the bag. There were normal like shower curtains, clean laundry, and not having to cook. There were funny things, most of them in-jokes, such as BRAINS!, farting, and other various things that I will not mention to save breaking the Code of Girls Everywhere. And then there were the more personal ones - saying what we were thankful for in each other, in Russia, in our classes, and back home.
This one was mine:
I am thankful for mischievous little blonde boys with big smiles and way too much charm.
Just for you, Kirill. Just for you.
It was a good night.
The Saturday afterward, we were invited to have Thanksgiving dinner with a family in our ward. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, as I didn't know this family very well. Well, actually, I didn't know anyone in my ward very well. But that was beside the point.
We waited for someone to come pick us up and lead us to their apartment. While we were waiting, the snowglobe I had bought earlier at the souvenir market somehow broke inside my bag. The fluid got all over my winter hat (stowed inside the bag in order to cushion the snowglobe, mind you), and nearly ruined the rest of what I had bought in the bag.
Suffice it to say, I was not very happy.
So when a Russian guy walked up to us and said, "Excuse me, ladies, you look a little lost," I was ready to kick some butt. No guy was going to get away with trying to flirt me, man. No way. I was done. Bring on the butt-kicking.
Then we noticed that he was wearing a BYU jacket, and my butt-kicking urges went out the window. Maybe it was for the best - kicking anyones' butt for any reason is a bad idea. I should learn to be more civil.
Anyways, it turned out that he was Brother...um.....well, his last name is Russian, and Russian surnames are really hard to remember. Keep that in mind. He was the man of the family we were going to be visiting. Let's just leave it at that. His wife was American, and they had moved to Moscow not long ago from Las Vegas. They had three kids, who some of my roommates knew because they help in Primary.
So, we were led from the mall down a few streets to their apartment. Walking inside was like walking into a dream. Yes, that is a cliche. But whatever. Every time we have visited someone's house, I've found myself unable to get over the homey-ness of it. Our dorms are okay, but they certainly aren't a home. They're a place to sleep, and to talk, and use the computer. The school as a whole, I guess, is our home - the place we eat, sleep, work, etc. But it doesn't have the feeling of home.
We all sat down in the kitchen, smelling the familiar smells of mashed potatoes and turkey. Eating the food was amazing. It was just like it was back home.....well, almost. The olives still had pits. But oh well. It was all still delicious.
But the best part was talking. There was another group of ILP teachers there, and this combined to make something almost exactly like my favorite part of Thanksgiving. I felt almost like I was in California again, talking and laughing and listening while I ate, hearing the chatter and clutter the kids made in the background......it was wonderful.
Afterward, we all sat in the living room and played games. I sat on the sofa, and had a deep discussion with the family's little toddler about a shoelace underneath the couch that looked like a bug. In the end, I still believed that it was definitely a shoelace, but she was convinced that it was a bug. Well, I tried.
In the end, overall, it was worth the globe fluid all over my hat.
Which, really, is all that matters.
