Lydia is making cake balls (chocolate cake rolled with cream cheese and dipped in melted chocolate) and singing along to 90s music in the kitchen. Darren and Greg and Donovan and Rachelle and Katie are having a design project party across the hall. Kelley and Rebecca are practicing ballet in the hall. It snowed 4 inches today so the nighttime world is glistening quietly, as yet undisturbed by the daytime traffic. I’m safe and warm in my little Moscow dorm room, here for one more week, and I think I’m going to miss this place.
I was supposed to go to the zoo today with Ilya, but we ended up having a final rehearsal for our scenes at school instead. So yesterday I called her to let her know I couldn’t meet her and ask for her address so I can write her postcards when I get home. I wrote out a script for myself, then went downstairs to ask the lady at the front desk to let me use the phone. There are 3 main women who work at the desk buzzing people in and out. We call them the Babushkas (grandmothers), although they’re not actually that old. One of them has dark hair and a round face and always smiles and greets me as I pass. Another wears short gray hair and a grimace, and sits a little like an ogre protecting a drawbridge, although I’m sure she’s actually much nicer than that. The one who was there yesterday has orange-ish brown hair with mousey brown roots. Her lipstick matches her hair, and the plastic frames of her thick glasses match the roots. She rarely smiles but nods solemnly in greeting, as though I’m entering a church (it makes me want to curtsy to her, but so far I’ve resisted the urge). When I got to the lobby I asked to use the phone:
Me: “Ya dumayu telefon v maya komnata ni rabotayet. Mojna esposavat eta telefon?” (I think the phone in my room doesn’t work. May I use this phone?”)
Babushka: “Yes. I help.”
And she got up and let me sit at her desk and dialed the number for me. Ilya didn’t answer, and it sounded like a child’s voice on the other end of the line. In the first part of my script, I asked to speak to Ilya, and the child said she wasn’t home. In the next part of the script I explained why I couldn’t meet “you” at the zoo, so I quickly changed “you” to “Ilya” and forged ahead, then said “ponimaeyete?” (do you understand?). The child mumbled something and then moved the phone to call for someone else to come and talk to me, and then hung up on me.
Slightly ruffled but determined to relay my message and get Ilya’s address, I dialed the number again. But I couldn’t figure out how to dial out of the building, so I called for the babushka to come and help me again. She dialed it for me again, probably wondering vaguely if I was harassing somebody, then handed me the phone. This time a man answered. I read him my whole script and he said “yes” and started giving me the address, at which point I realized I was never going to be able to figure out how to spell the street name in Russian. So I called for the babushka again, waved the receiver at her and said “izvenitye, pajalusta, ya haichu adres?” (excuse me please, I want address?) and pointed at my script. She took the phone and copied down the address for me, and even got Ilya’s last name for me, somehow knowing I needed that too. When she hung up the phone, she read the address to me and I read it back to her to make sure I knew all the letters. I said “spaciba balshoi” (thank you very much) about 5 times and smiled hugely at her, and she nodded and smiled back – the first time I’ve ever seen her smile.
It is immensely satisfying to communicate with people here – I am pleased with myself every time I understand when the checkout lady asks if I want a bag or when the lunch lady tells me that my meal costs 151 rubles or when the speaker voice says that we’re at the Mayakovskaya metro stop and the next stop is Beloruskaya. The amount of focus and determination it takes to understand and make myself understood forces me to be more aware of myself and the world around me. It’s harder to fall into habit here, and although this can be exhausting, it’s also rewarding. So although I’m looking forward to seeing my first play in the States and being able to follow the story from the words being said, I will miss the pleasure of simple communication.
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