how to survive a russian winter

Boots.

No seriously, just boots.

Okay, let me explain.  It's kind of cold here.  I say "kind of" not to be ironic, but rather as a sign of respect for my colleagues in the comparably-more-frozen swathes of this largest of countries.  We've been in more or less what I'd call "winter temperatures" for about five to six weeks.  It hasn't  been too bad, around 15-20 °F most days.  Then last week it dropped to an average high of around 0 °F.  That still isn't too bad, believe it or not, until you factor in the hurricane-strength gusts of wind that come constantly roaring in across the second largest lake in Europe.

And so I found myself wondering how I could possibly make myself warmer as I trudged home last night (really it was mid-afternoon, but the sun set at 3:19pm yesterday, so bear with me), haunted by the knowledge that I would have to leave the warm refuge of my apartment after painfully few hours to meet up with some friends.  I had already donned my silk base layer, my fleece sweatshirt, my thick woolly socks.  But I was still cold.  And then I remembered: my boots!

Let's back up.  Before coming to Russia, I wanted to get the best, warmest, waterproofest boots on the market.  The way it's always worked for me is, if my feet are cold, I'm cold.  If my feet are warm, I'm warm.  So I scoured the depths of the Internet and ordered what seemed like the perfect shoe: the Baffin Punisher.  Seven-layer insulation.  Ultra-modern metal lacing system.  Rated to -76 °F.  In a word: immaculate.  The only problem, as I figured out upon opening the box on arrival, was that the pictures of the shoe in all-white vacuum space online created a lack of proper perspective.  These boots are huge.  Like, practical joke big.  To give you that proper perspective which I originally lacked,  consider the following photographs, which show the boots next to my everyday walking shoes and a regulation size Pringles can:

Enter the Punisher.

I will admit to delaying using these bad boys longer than I should have because I was worried about the ridicule that was sure to come my way for strapping to Sherman tanks to my ankles.  And then I put them on.  It was as if my world had changed.  The sidewalk cleaners have really basic tools here, so for the past month all the walks have been covered with a packed down two inches of snow and ice.  Usually it makes walking a chore and adds a good 20-30% to my walk time.  But as soon as I stepped out in my behemoths, I could tell the difference.  I felt my pace quicken, even faster than on dry road.  These things on loosely-packed snow are like a Ferrari on pristine pavement; they eat it up.  

They make an ungodly sound too, like an angry rubber tire attacking a piece of Styrofoam.  As I walked out of my neighborhood toward the main drag, an old woman walking a good 20 yards in front of me actually turned around to survey what manner of fell beast was overtaking her.  At one point, a gust of wind blew a loose piece of plastic in my path, only to resoundingly crushed by the fall of my crashing steps.  It was like I was filming a commercial for these things.

But best of all, my feet.  They felt, to quote Tim Curry as Nigel St. Nigel, like they'd been "swaddled in a cocoon of cloud candy."  I actually had to downgrade to my regular strength athletic socks or else they get too warm.  Having seen the error of my ways, I shan't be caught gallivanting about in hiking shoes again!  At this point, I feel like I can finally understand the psychological appeal of owning a Hummer.  So do yourself a favor.  If you come to Russia in the winter, purchase some ridiculously ridiculous boots.  They might just save your life.  

Or cause an international incident.

trainspotting

Another day trip to Petersburg meant another pair of train rides.  I thought I would write a bit about the experience of traveling by train in Russia, as it's an essential part of the country's everyday culture that's virtually unheard of in the U.S.  While plane and automobile use are increasing all the time, the train is still far and away the dominant form of travel in Russia.  It's something that nearly every single Russian will experience at some point in his or her life, and a common occurrence for many.

The train (and especially the Russian train) is almost an inherently social activity, lacking the privacy of automobile travel and the relative brevity of air travel.  This effect is magnified when one rides "na platzkartye," the term for third-class accommodations.  The platzkart is arguably a cultural concept unto itself, though not necessarily for good reasons--a quick Google search for "platzkart" returns a considerable list of sites that include the word "infamous" in their description of the term.  So why is it so infamous?  Observe:

The third-class wagon is a completely open sleeper car that seats around 65 people.  While it's hard to tell in the picture above, the "cabins" on the left each contain four bunks, two high, two low.  The right side features one high and one low bunk that stretch longways down the spine of the car (the little tables fold down).  One can start to imagine how such an arrangement would afford the reputation it's earned at the prospect of taking a 15-, 30-, or 60-hour train ride with 64 of your soon-to-be closest friends.  This is especially true when compared to second-class, which features locking compartments with just four travelers each.

Despite most Russians' preference for second-class, however--most who ride platzkart don't do so by choice--I actually prefer it to second-class.  For one, it affords more flexibility in what kind of train experience you want.  If you want to talk and drink all night with your fellow travelers, there will certainly always be something to share a drink (or seven) with.  If you want to read quietly and get some sleep, however, you can do that too, as the large number of riders allows for much more anonymity.  The latter is usually my chosen travel strategy.  I say this not because I'm anti-social, but because I've learned that even a simple "Hello" can lead to a seven-hour conversation that can potentially last until the wee hours of the morning.  And I'm usually taking a night train and want my sleep.  And I'm anti-social.

My last train ride, however, was an evening train that left in the afternoon and got in around midnight, so I decided to strike up a conversation with one of my bunk mates.  True to form, we ended talking for a few hours, but I did also get in a more than healthy nap, so I got the best of both worlds.  My new friend, Alexei, was a very interesting sort.  He's quite the intimidating chap, a good few inches taller than me and built like an ox.  He has a rather insistent quality, which would be alarming if he weren't so friendly, and he proudly showed me his military identification card from when he was in the service.  In short, he seemed the kind of guy you wouldn't want to mess with about ten years ago.

Like so many Russians I meet, he has a much softer side behind his stern appearance.  He quoted a few stanzas of poetry to me from memory when he saw I was reading Lermontov.  He insisted on sharing his tea and bread rolls with me, and showed me some pictures of his four year-old son even more proudly than he did his military papers.  When we got off the train, he suggested (read: gently insisted) that we share a taxi.  And even though my apartment was on the way to his, he told the driver to drop us both off at his building, after which we got in his car so he could drive me home.  While the experience was a bit strange, it was emblematic of one of the best qualities of the Russian people: they are fiercely generous and highly endearing.  Naturally, before parting we exchanged phone numbers.    He called me today with an invitation I wouldn't necessarily have expected from my new barrel-chested ex-military friend.

Next week we're going ice skating.

trip to petersburg and tragedy

I'm more than a bit behind in terms of updating my blog.  I have no real excuse, other than to say that the first two weeks after my last post were too boring to write about and last two weeks since have been too busy.  Anyway, I'm going to do my best to update this thing over the next week, as I've got a bit of a backlog of material to write about.

My girlfriend has come to visit these past two weeks, so the Saturday before last I met her at the airport in St. Petersburg.  It was my first time in Petersburg, so I was pleased that all the logistical aspects of coordinating trains, plains, and automobile taxis went smoothly.  I only hope the return trip will be as easy.  We had quite a bit of time between when the plane arrived and the plane left, so we were able to see some of the main sights.  This was somewhat dampened, however, by two facts: 1) it was very cold; and 2) around this time the sun is up from around 10am to 3pm, most of which time was spent at the airport/traveling to the train station to store luggage.  That said, I still got some great pictures.

Church of the Savior on Blood--built on the site where Tsar Alexander II was assassinated

The Winter Palace--because 1500 rooms just isn't enough in summer

Kazan Cathedral

I didn't spend a lot of time in the city, but my impressions of it were that I like it better than Moscow.  Anyone familiar with my feelings on Moscow, however, knows this is not itself a particularly impressive distinction.  But I'd like to go back and see more in the future.

Now to the titular tragedy.  I apologize if you took it seriously and have been on pins and needles this entire post, but it's less of the "dozens killed in 50 car pile-up" kind of tragedy and more of the "I can't believe they replaced David Hasselhoff with Howie Mandel on America's Got Talent" kind of tragedy.  More specifically, after three glorious months in the (near) sun, my long flowing locks have been shorn.  Observe the grisly aftermath:

No, that is not a large rodent.  It is my hair.

Just look at that pile!  That's enough hair to make a toupee.  For an indication of how long it was before I cut it, my hair is still a healthy 2.5 inches or so.  While it saddens me to think of what I've lost, I take solace in the thought of the coming winter months, which you may know constitute the prime season for hair-growing.  I'm also considering a beard.  In fact, I had one of my artistically-inclined students do a mock-up of what I might look like with the long hair/beard combo, and I'm quite pleased with the results:

Oh yeah, this is definitely happening.