The last few days have flown by in a
blur and I've not had time to stop and think since I last wrote. I’m glad I
took a bit of time out on Wednesday to get up-to-date and didn't go out
anywhere in the evening for the first time in I don’t know how long.
On Thursday I thought it was about
time I joined the others for lunch again, since I hadn't really been around for
the rest of the week. By the time I got back I just had time to do my work
before grabbing a quick dinner and leaving for choir. We were working on The Lord Bless You and Keep You, which
is in English, meaning that for once I know that if I pronounce something
differently, it’s me who’s in the right. There is another native English
speaker in the choir, an American guy who’s come over to study at a different
branch of the university, and everyone was amazed at his pronunciation. When I’d
said my version, though, it was decided the English pronunciation should be
adopted: another victory for Team GB!
In the break I had to dash off to my
exercise class, which was aerobics that day, a class I didn't want to miss. I
have to admit, it was a bit of an effort leaving choir early and braving the
cold and the rain, but I’m glad I did it. I’d forgotten that the instructor,
Irina, is just that little bit crazy, so of course this was not going to be any
ordinary aerobics class. It consisted of a mixture of muscle strength work, one
part standing, one part floor work (all normal so far) and a cardio part which
is probably best described as the kind of mad dancing you do when you’re a kid,
all sidesteps and turns and clapping. I've got to say, it was a fast-paced
workout, and there’s no mood-booster quite like dancing around like a prat for
an hour.
The next day, I didn't go to exercise
at all since Julia, the girl I’d met at choir, had got me a free ticket to
watch her play the balalaika in the National Folk Orchestra. She’d given me a
huge list of possible buses and marshrutkas to take, but even after asking my
teacher where to get them from I still ended up standing at the wrong stop.
Eventually, I managed to jump on a number 80, asking the driver if he could
tell me when my stop, Индустриальная (Industrial Stop) was, since I had absolutely no idea where I was
going. At the next stop, a lad about my age jumped out of the front seat and
came to talk to me, interested to know where I was from and what I was doing
there. Worried about missing my stop, I was distracted and not really fully
engaged in the conversation, but he was undeterred and proceeded to chat to me
for the entire journey. In the end he took my Facebook details and my number
and said he’d show me some of the sights around Yaroslavl.
When we arrived at his stop, he told
me where mine was and said I could ring him if I had any problems. It so
happened that the surly driver came through at the last minute by telling me
we’d arrived at my stop (in the typical Russian way, of course: “Girl, this is
Industrial Stop.”) It was at this point I became slightly alarmed, since I
seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, with no sign of Дом Културы Радий, or
anything resembling a concert hall, in sight. Nonetheless, I phoned Julia, as
she’d agreed to meet me and walk me to the concert, and in less than five
minutes she was there, out of breath from having run the whole way, not wanting
to keep me waiting. She was cheerful as usual and not at all annoyed that I was
over ten minutes late.
It was no wonder she was out of
breath, the concert hall being a good few minutes’ walk away and ridden with
deep potholes and muddy puddles. Once there, she showed me upstairs to the
rehearsal room and introduced me to everyone; it seemed almost her whole family
were members of the orchestra. The orchestra was actually set up by her
grandfather, who conducted it in 1986 but now plays the in the balalaika
section. Her grandmother and her little six-year-old brother are also in it,
and her older brother, who’s eighteen, used to be in it too but seems to have
realised it’s not exactly a cool hobby and was reluctantly there as an
audience-member instead. Julia was so excited to tell me all about the
orchestra and show me all the old photos, I felt awful when my phone went off;
it was Dennis from the bus, wanting to know if I’d found the place all right.
Bless.
I talked to her grandmother for a bit,
explaining that it was unlikely that I knew the two people she knew from
Exeter, since there are over five thousand people at the university alone. Then,
as Julia was showing me how to play a chord on the balalaika, her grandmother
came over again and asked me if I knew a man called Richard Bower – the conductor
of the Exeter University Symphony Orchestra! Unbelievable, that of all the
people in England she could know, she’s friends with the man who conducts my
old orchestra. I’m to say ‘hi’ for her, apparently.
Soon it was time for the concert, so
Julia led me to the main hall, which was laid out like a theatre, with red
tiered seating and a raised stage. The concert itself was fantastic; it was
presented as a traditional Russian story about the passing of the seasons and
the seasonal balls, by two hosts in glamorous Russian costumes. The musicians
were talented and enthusiastic, and the music itself was lively and uplifting. The
performance even included solos from male singers, an accordion and a strange
instrument I've never seen before – kind of like a horizontal harp struck by
beaters. It was a real authentic Russian experience and I felt really privileged
to have had the opportunity.
After the concert, Julia and her
brother Vanya and I walked around the area a bit and chatted. Vanya speaks
unbelievably fast and is sometimes impossible to understand, as is his Russian
sense of humour, but he seems like good fun and wants our friends to meet on
Monday at Cocktail Bar. Apparently there’s a Yaroslavl cocktail I have to try;
it sounds lethal.
By then it was getting on for 9 o’clock
and my hands were beginning to freeze, so I decided I’d best be getting back if
I wanted to meet the others in town. On the marshrutka back a girl sat next to
me and, seeing my bear gloves, showed them to her son. I asked him if he liked
them and from then, a conversation started between the girl and me, whose name
was Olga. It turned out we were getting off at the same stop, and not only
that, but she lived on my road. She asked me to come over and, taken aback by
this sudden invitation, I asked her if she meant right now. She said of course,
if I wanted to and wasn't busy. All the usual doubts went through my head
before I remembered what I’d read about Russian hospitality and what my
teachers had told me, that Russians find it quite normal to make new friends in
this way, particularly with foreigners.
Still dubious as it went against my
instincts and everything I’d been told when I was growing up, I told myself
that since she lived on my road and had a ten-year-old son, it would be fine. I
accepted but added as a precaution that I couldn't stay long as I was meeting
my friends. When we were nearly at her house I had a message saying people were
on their way into town, and started to explain that I couldn't visit after all.
Olga seemed disappointed and said I could just stay for a cup of tea as I
looked freezing, but she was ready to walk me back to my house if I wanted. With
a sudden burst of impulsiveness I agreed, and before I knew it, I was in her warm
little flat, taking off my shoes and accepting a woolly polo neck and a brand
new pair of socks. She had me put on some little silver slippers with pink
feathers and asked me if I’d prefer tea or something else.
After much deliberation, not wanting
to put her out by getting her to open a bottle of wine or drinking her favourite
spirit, I let her make me her usual, which happened to be Malibu (which I love)
and milk (an unexpected but effective combination). Then we just ended up
talking for hours about our lives and our interests, and her little son Italii,
who she’d had when she was eighteen. She’d divorced since then and now it was
just the two of them, and they seemed more like best friends than mother and
son. Anyway, we got on really well and she invited me to come round any time,
since it couldn't be much fun living with an elderly landlady.
When it was nearly midnight I decided
I really should go as everyone was expecting me at Oktoberfest, and Olga insisted on walking me there; she was worried
I’d get lost or get into trouble. On the way, I was getting messages from
Dennis and she was getting calls from her new boyfriend, and we got talking
about guys. The guy she’s seeing, from what I can gather, has a shady career
and has just come out of prison after eight years. I asked her if she was
scared of him and she said simply, “He doesn't hit women”. Just in case I’d
forgotten what a complete other world this place is.
We reached Oktoberfest and since she didn't want to stay, we said our goodbyes
and agreed to meet over the weekend (after all, I’d have to see her again
sometime; I was wearing her clothes). I stayed with everyone in Oktoberfest for one drink before a
smaller group of us moved on to Your Бар.
I’d forgotten what a good bar that is – good music, good prices, dance floor
– since the whole fiasco, but I think you’re pretty safe there as long as you’re
not in a huge group. At around 3.30 I walked back with Jojo and James, after a
surreal but successful night.
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