A Note on Russia

First of all, this piece is in no way a means of excusing the horrors that have been taking place within Russia’s minority community throughout the duration of the past few years. Neither is it a dismissal of some of the crueler policies Putin’s regime has decided to unleash upon its people. I do not mean to justify any of the prejudiced viewpoints held by a startling majority of the former USSR’s population, nor do I aim to validate the violent acts of hate taking the country by storm. I am simply an overly opinionated student with a Russian Studies major and a wish to change the world.

A wish to make people understand.

Even if we closed our eyes and imagined that the Cold War hadn’t happened, it is doubtful that the world would be going into Sochi with an open-minded, happy go lucky attitude. Russia, with its increasingly oppressive anti-gay laws, skyrocketing levels of racism and homophobia, and hopelessly corrupt political system, is enraging—and, frankly, quite confusing—to the majority of us. As a country, it stands as the sixth most powerful territory in the world; it is one of five permanent members of the United Nations, giving it almost infinite power over any UN resolution; and it is home to the highest number of the world’s billionaires.

Why, then, it is so much more “backward” than any of the other “developed” countries we hold in such high regard?

To put it simply, despite its being grouped with other “first world” countries, it is not like us; we evaluate the status of its economics, but neglect to take into account the underlying factors that have hindered its path to modern social progressiveness. For years, it existed under Mongolian rule; while the bulk of Europe experienced the enlightenment of the Renaissance, Russia continued to sit in the dark. Years later, Stalin rose to power.

Many of us have been taught to despise communism; for generations, it has represented the enemy of freedom, the disease that takes hold of a country and, if left unchecked, spreads to all surrounding territories with weak, nondemocratic governments that cannot fight the virus. While we occupied ourselves with the supposed threat to America’s people, however, we neglected to see what Stalin did to his own. Newspapers were censored; books were destroyed; valuable information was withheld from the public, replaced by an idealized fabrication that romanticized the Soviet lifestyle and stifled independent thought. Large groups of people were crowded into apartments built to fit a single family. Scientists, geniuses, radicals, philosophers, high-level officers—some of the country’s most progressive, intelligent people—were killed in a matter of years. Those who spoke out or threatened the government’s stability were brutally arrested; the only options were to keep your head down or run the risk of starving or freezing to death in a Siberian Gulag. By the time the Soviet regime fell, the only ones left were those figuratively (and, often literally) beaten into submission by a government that punished free speech and independent thought; now, they struggle to adapt to a democracy in which their opinions do not matter—in which their leader is more dictator than Guidant.

Today, especially in light of the upcoming Olympics, international media has a significant tendency to scrutinize Russia with a particularly critical eye: they are portrayed as rude, homophobic nationalists, who would rather murder their stray dogs than help them seek shelter. Now, I’m not saying that none of this is true—racism, homophobia, and a unique brand of nationalism run high in Russian citizens; rather, I am asking you to understand them before you classify the entire lot of them—or, for that matter, their culture—as ignorant or cruel. Living in Russia, one of the most prominent impressions I received was not one of hatred, but of despair—a sentiment that fighting for one’s rights is pointless, especially in a society where votes and voices are squashed by overwhelming corruption. Poverty is rampant; many men drink not only to escape the daily grind of a repetitive, low-paying job, but because vodka is less expensive than a good coat. The (somewhat hilarious) inconveniences that journalists are all a-twitter about are far more luxurious than many of the Soviet-style apartments most Russians inhabit.

One of the most heart-breaking moments of my experience in St. Petersburg occurred when I was leading an adult English discussion group, a weekly requirement for my under-the-table part-time job I had managed to fish out to provide me with some extra spending money. Midway through the presentation (the topic happened to be American politics and the US election system,) one of the audience members raised his hand and politely asked if we could move on—in a world where votes literally did not count, learning about a democracy that functioned more or less effectively was, to put it simply, depressing.

Many Russians do not like Putin; in fact, had the ballots been counted truthfully, it is improbable that he would even be president today. Another member of the group later chimed in and added that, having met failure after failure in trying to make his new democracy work, he, along with most of his friends and acquaintances, had given up; it was easier to believe in nothing than to fight for demands that would not be acknowledged and exist in a state of constant disappointment. Now, I am not at all saying that this excuses them from vying for the human rights that have been so consistently denied to Russia’s minority groups, and I am by no means of the conviction that their hatred is justified. I mourn for those who suffer from the injustices Putin has inflicted upon them, and my heart breaks a little more each time a new LGBT member is beaten or hurt by a member of an activist party—not only because I so badly want justice for them, but also because the image that depicts Russia as a hateful, ruthless, brutal country is burned further and further into our brains. The fact is that Russia, although in many ways socially behind (some compare it to the United States in the 50’s and 60’s,) is truly a beautiful country. Its people, although exhausted, are unbelievably kind, hospitable to a fault, and perhaps more brilliantly wise than many could ever hope to be.

Of course, I do not expect everybody to love, or even like, Russia, and frankly, not everyone is cut out for it. The weather is harsh; the water is undrinkable; the meat, no matter what the variety, will be almost always be labeled simply as “meat;” and in taking an elevator, there is about a 20% chance that you will break down and wait from five minutes to three hours for a mechanic to fix the problem long enough for the elevator to take you to your desired floor. I am also not saying that people should ignore what is happening. I am glad for the international scrutiny—it provides a voice, however small, for people who are typically ignored or stifled by government officials, and I do believe that world pressure has the power to inspire (or force) a great deal of change. I am merely asking you to understand before labeling a nation of people, and to have faith in them. They may have a great way to go, but if no one believes in their ability to do so, they will never have the opportunity to make the journey. 

In Which I Break the Mold

To Those Who Enjoy Long Walks on the Beach;

So, I know I said that my next post would be about Pancake Week, but you know what? Life is cruel and unpredictable and can be known to deal a solid left hook to the jaw every once and a while. Get used to it. Instead, I found myself inspired to describe in extensive, poorly-written detail the basic Russian stereotypes and whether or not they hold any truth (because let's face it- there are some stereotypes that are so accurate they could out-shoot Hawkeye in the World Pea Shooting Championships.) If you were born under a star-spangled rock and have never before in your life heard a Russian generalization, then please sit back, grab some Freedom Fries, and prepare to embark on a journey of knowledge.

1. Bears walk freely wherever they please.

WRONG.


Unless you're ingesting some form of bath salts, you will not see any bears on the streets. There is a mighty handsome bear pelt in a store near my home that I'm considering buying and laying on my apartment floor so that Alan Rickman and Gerard Butler can lie shirtless on it and sing me love songs, but that's about it. If you want to see a bear, stick to Google Images. Or, you know, roll yourself in some meat juice and wander around the woods.


2. Russian women are absolutely gorgeous until they turn about 45, when they go through a sort of species-change and become the babushka (бабушка.)

CORRECT


Really, I don't know what it is about the Russian female population, but it's like they're all way-less-cute pokemon who mean-mug you and judge your choice of jeans instead of repeating their names in adorable voices. I have yet to see one breathe fire, but who knows- maybe if you throw a ball at them it'll open up and suck them in. Seriously, they start out like this...

...And end up like this.

Congratulations! Your hot Russian girl has evolved into...babushka!

I don't know what it is that does it, but somewhere around their 45th birthday, they undergo a strange transformation that adds 30 pounds, replaces their short skirts with mumu's, and bends their spine so that they constantly walk at a 90-degree angle.

4. All Russians are dirty Commies

WRONG!

Don’t let Mitt Romney fool you—we are no longer in the 1960’s. Despite what many an old conservative white man might tell you, THE COLD WAR IS OVER. And, although they’re still working out quite a few of those good ole’ capitalism kinks (the term “service with a smile” remains relatively unfamiliar to them,) they do not have a communist government. Sure, there’s corruption, and sure, it may seem as if the ageless Putin has been president for the last eighty years, but—and I cannot stress this enough—not every Russian is a secret police member whose initiative is to shoot down bald eagles and the meaning of freedom with nukes and vodka-fueled fits of rage. There is NO NEED to feel as if we must infiltrate the Motherland and go Amurrca on e’rrbody’s ass.  In fact, I even got a free fruit plate out of being American one time. And how do we react to them? By making them the villains in our movies and depicting every Russian man as a walking hammer-and-sickle-sporting vodka vessel with a thick beard and an equally thick accent. Also, the word “comrade” is rarely used in Russia. In fact, the only people who use it are the Americans studying abroad. Also, this isn’t a stereotype, but the word for “comrade” in Russian is товарищ, or tovarisch. How we translated that to “comrade,” I will never know. 

Every Russian Drinks Like a Fish After a Marathon

INCORRECT...kind of.





Okay, so Russians do like their vodka. My friends and I quickly learned that, when it comes to taking shots at parties, “no” means “yes” and “yes” means “just pour the whole flipping bottle down my throat, comrade.” And there was one time when I came home to my drunken host mother sleeping on top of the kitchen table (don’t worry, I was able to reach under her and get my pack of cookies with no major disturbances.) But, other than that, Russians are actually a relatively sober people. Most students even refuse to drink on school days, which makes for an awkward situation when the Americans are cleaning the place out of its beer supply while the Russians sip at their pear juice.FALSE

Russians Don't Smile

CORRECT!




Okay, so it's not like Russians don't smile--if you're their friend, or if you're at a party or bar with them, they'll smile like they're a regular Buddy the Elf. But out in public, you better think twice before flashing your pearly whites to that boy sitting across from you on the metro. In your friendly, naive American mind, of course, you're probably just saying, "Hey, bucko, I don't know you, but I'd like to wish you a swell day with lots of sunshine and ice cream!" In Russian social-speak, however, you might as well have just said, "Hey, I don't know you, but why don't you follow me home to my chamber where we can make sweet, passionate love all night?" Seriously, in the Motherland, a smile at a strange man is akin to laying out a path of rose petals leading straight to your chamber of secrets. If you smile at a woman, it's not quite that serious; if she's younger than 35, she'll just scoff and walk away. If she's older than that, she'll kill you with her laser beam eyes and leave your remains for the stray dogs.

Well, I think I've covered most of the main ones. My apologies if any of them sounded a tad bit angry, but I kind of consider myself the vigilante of Russian stereotypes. Still waiting on the medal from Putin. Anyway, I hope to do one more blog post before I head back to Amurrca for good- thanks for reading!

In Which I Find Myself Back in the U.S.S.R.

To Those Who Need Purpose in Their Lives;

Just when you thought my boring, calorie-filled, completely unimportant Russian shenanigans were over, I have decided to bring a completely new meaning to your otherwise empty lives with the reinstatement of this blog (and yes, I did have to break out the right click-scroll down-synonyms to find another word for "meaningless." Please don't judge me.) Anyway, I figured that right now you're probably feeling like this:

What I looked like when I discovered that my favorite blini place serves free packets of Nutella with every blin you order

So, without any further ado, let's get down to business. (I figured you're gonna need a pump-up song before you embark on this extremely boring journey of reading every excruciating detail that I find worthy of telling you.)

First item of business: the host family. Like you, I was a bit apprehensive that I would never be able to find someone quite as flamboyant and cabbage-obsessed as the great Mama Masha, but, as someone famous in history may have said at one point, it was time to jump out of my comfort bubble and into the sea of host families that Russia has to offer. As I don't have any pictures of my new family (and as copying the pictures they do have costs 6 rubles per page,) I'll try my best to find family-friendly internet photographs that accurately depict them. Also, since it would take, like, forever to actually find something that even remotely resembled them online, I'm just going to type their basic descriptions into the Google search engine and see what comes up. Therefore, there may be some slightly inaccurate representations.

Алёна (Alyona)- the Mama Bear.

Overall, except for the fact that she's about 20 pounds lighter and owns at least four times as many thongs, Alyona is pretty similar to Mama Masha. We share an affinity for vodka, sleeping until noon, and eating by ourselves in the dead of night, which has made us what the cool kids call "BFFL's." She also calls me "умница" (umnitsa, or smart one,) whenever I manage to correctly heat up my cheese-covered noodles and ground beef in the microwave, which I quite appreciate.

Here is a picture of Алёна.

Пётр (Pyotr)- Papa Bear

Pyotr is a solemn man with serene eyes and a thoughtful disposition. He also spends a lot of money on bad haircuts and chocolate (just one of the many conversation topics we use to connect.) He doesn't talk much, except for occasionally describing the plots of historical films on television, which he can't seem to get enough of. I can pretty honestly say that me and Pyotr is like peas and carrots.

This came up when I typed in his description so...yeah. That's Peter.

Валера (Valera)- Big Brother Bear

Like his father, Valera is also quite solemn. In fact, the only time I see him is when I come home from my Russian shenanigans and can't quite figure out how to make the key turn, so he has to come and let me in. We exchange a brusque "privyet" and run to our rooms. On a more concerning note, he hasn't been to school in the entire six weeks I've been here. According to his mother, he's sick. Either he's mastered the art of the fake fever or his mom's just really gullible. Here is Valera.

It was either him or the kid with the tattoo sleeve.

Ваня (Vanya)- Baby Bear

At seven years-old, Vanya rounds out the human portion of the family with his almost-mullet and obsession with television. For the most part, he's a pretty nifty kid, except for the fact that it's almost impossible to understand him when he talks. However, he has taught me the words for "gloves," "snail," and "fungus," all of which I use on an almost day-to-day basis. He also watches a lot of inappropriate television, but maybe he has an old soul. Here's Vanya.

Except blond.

Ян (Yahn)- Devil in the Form of a Dog

Like all things in life, Yahn can be cute if he lies completely still next to the couch and doesn't make noise. However, most of the time he's biting holes in my socks. He also peed on my bed a few weeks ago. I left a note on the kitchen table telling my host parents to "look at my blankets." I wanted to say, "your stupid dog relieved himself on my bed and I need you to change the sheets before I go to sleep tonight," but I had to leave and that seemed too complicated to try and puzzle out. I actually do have a picture of Yahn, though.

Don't look him directly in the eyes- you'll spend the rest of your life paralyzed from the neck down.

Cockatoo 1 and Cockatoo 2

The family cockatoos.

Cockatoos

Няня (NyaNya)- the Nanny.

The every-Tuesday-Thursday caretaker, Няня is basically the matchmaker from Mulan in disguise. I try to avoid the house when she's in session, but when we're in the same room, it's pretty much a one-on-one dodgeball fight with her bringing the hurt and me silently shoving food in my mouth, my only defense my already below-average self-confidence and my less-than-three-years Russian experience. So far, she has managed to tell me this:

-I don't talk enough (Well, yeah, lady; generally one person has to stop talking every once and a while for a conversation to take place.)

-I don't eat enough (This is only because I try to eat outside of the house so as to avoid spending time in her presence.)

-My bedspread has a stain on it (Okay, so this is true. I spilled blueberry jam on it.)

-I don't clean my room (True again. But I like my bed to feel like a giant nest.)

-I should have a husband (I'll get right on that after I finish re-watching season 3 of Justice League. And you wonder why my only form of love life is between me and my Dove Chocolate Promise candies.)

-My face is too fat to find a husband (Well you know what, Nanny? Your fingers are fat.)

She looks just like this.

See that? That's her waving good-bye to your dignity.

Well, for those of you who are still reading (what up, Mom and Dad?) I leave you here. Please excuse the horrible grammar. The semester has not been kind to me.

PS- Did you know that Urkel looks like this now????

There is hope for me yet. Also, this came up when I typed in "Russian boy with mullet"

Accurate. Well, so long. Join me next time when I talk about the glorious phenomenon that is Pancake Week.

In Which Things Get Animated

Friends, family, and esteemed colleagues;

Welcome to another action-packed blog post by yours truly. Currently, it is a blustery night in Putin-Land, and I have just finished watching Lord of the Rings po-russki (Властелин Колец, or Vlastelin Kolets,) on Mama Masha’s 64-inch flat screen TV equipped with surround sound and shirtless men who feed you popcorn and jelly beans. (Naw, just kidding—it’s 10 inches and looks like it could have been made by Prince. It’s also located on the top shelf of the cupboard, which can be very painful to the neck and spine when watching a movie such as Lord of the Rings po-russki.)

Anyway, onto the topic du jour. For those of you who don’t know me, I probably seem like a pretty cool cat whose milkshakes bring at least 87% of the boys to the yard. For those of you who do have the pleasure of knowing me, however, you will know that on any given Friday, Saturday, or Sunday night (as well as any weeknight,) you can inevitably find me curled up under a blanket in my sweatpants and moose sweater with a block of cheese or salami whilst watching cartoons.

Cartoons are, in my opinion, one of the greatest joys in life. They’ve served as integral parts of our childhoods—any kid born from 1985-1995 knows that no get-to-know-you session is complete without a nostalgic look at some of the greatest 90’s cartoons (Rocket Power, Rugrats, Wild Thornberries, Doug, Hey Arnold…the list never ends. At least until about 2001.) In addition, I think that people watching cartoons are a lot less judgmental in terms of the overall weird-ness of it. Face it- what hasn't been done in cartoons? You can pretty much portray anything that your little heart desires. As some people (mainly I,) like to say, the only thing holding you back is your imagination, and your imagination has no limits. I can’t remember if I’ve used that on this blog before, but I’m particularly proud of this sub-par quote, so I probably have. 

Admit it--when you were six, there was absolutely nothing abnormal about this.

And let’s be real—there are some things in cartoons that you just can’t do with real people. I mean, there are some pretty good actors and directors and whatnot out there, but come on—Futurama? South Park? Spongebob Squarepants? There’s just no way you could have a man in Dr. Zoidberg makeup or a gang of eight year-olds screaming obscenities at each other on public television without giving heart attacks to the entire population of TV-watching 65-80 age group (which, realistically, is pretty much all of them.)

Now, I could go on and on about cartoons and their places in society and how I am someday going to reinvent the cartoon culture (okay, that’s probably assuming a bit much of myself,) but as this blog is probably boring enough without my ramblings, I’m going to get on to what I actually came here to talk about: Russian cartoons.

Like I said--just kind of unsettling.

If you know anything about Russian stereotypes and/or have read any of the cultural updates I’ve posted on this blog, you would probably guess that Russian cartoons (мультфильмы, or multfilmi,) are some of the strangest phenomena on Earth that seem like they could have been created by a bearded man named Muroslav who lives in a basement with his cat Igor and Igor’s toy mouse Boris. Well, I am here to tell you that you are 100% correct. And in my opinion, they are the greatest things to have happened to me since the invention of push-up toilet seats. There’s no way I could even begin to cover the frightening and slightly unsettling concept of Russian ‘toons in just one blog post, so I’ll cover the ones I consider to be the most important. Because I, of course, am the judge of all things important.

Let’s start with one that defines the life of every Russian student. If someone has studied Russian at all, I guarantee you that he or she has heard of Cheburashka. It's like Russia's national animal if the bear were to go extinct. In case you don’t know, which you probably don’t, Cheburashka (whose name literally means ‘tumbler,’) is a strange mouse-bear-I-don’t-even-know-what-they-were-on-when-they-drew-it animal that was found in a box of oranges by a scamming Russian man who sells—you guessed it—oranges. He takes li’l Cheb to the zoo, where he finds out that it is an animal “unknown to science.” Cheburashka is then offered a job as a kind of circus attraction (because really, what else could a creepy talking unknown animal found in a box of fruit do?) where he sits and waits for his prince to come.

And that, kids, is why you always buy local.

At the same time, we meet a homely and very disturbing crocodile named Gena (Гена) working at the zoo as a…crocodile. (I think the show wore out its creativity stipend in creating Cheburashka himself.) Anyways, Crocodile Gena is feelin’ somethin’ lonesome--probably due to his homeliness and overall disturbingness--so he makes a collection of fliers advertising himself as a “young crocodile who wants to find himself new friends.” Which, as you all know, is the third most successful and non-creepy way to meet people. Although he lacks the ability to read, Cheburashka somehow senses this, and he toddles on over to Crocodile Gena's home, where the two become best of friends and have a series of Soviet adventures. 

Along the way, they meet a series of crazy characters, the most prominently featured of whom is an old woman named Shapoklyak. Although she more resembles a senior citizen escaped from her nursing home, she is portrayed as a flamboyant and cunning babushka who likes to play tricks on people with a pet rat who lives in her purse.

Like I said before, I would bet my six-disc Lord of the Rings Collectors Edition set that every Russian student has heard of Cheburashka in some form. I am telling you, it's a cult that has transcended even to the government, as it has officially been announced as Russia's Olympic symbol for the 2014 Sochi Olympics. A few weeks ago, there was even a (hopefully satirical) article equating the Cheburashka characters to terrorists. And, of course, there's nothing I love more than some crazy cartoon fan theories that people like good old Muroslav and his pet cat Boris take way too much time to put together.

I was going to try and put together a picture of Putin with Cheburashka ears, but this one is much better.

For featuring one of the national symbols of Russia, the Cheburashka DVD is outstandingly jank, so there aren't really any episodes with English subtitles available. However, I will give you this fan-translated video of the pilot, as well as one of the greatest and distinctively Russian-nest birthday songs in existence. In case you're wondering, I've provided the literal translation. I promise that this is really as much sense as it'll ever make. The only reason I didn't make this a link to a page with the translation is because I think everyone should see this.

Let the pedestrians run
Awkwardly through puddles
And the water-- as a river on the asphalt
And it's not clear to passersby
On this unspecial day
Why I'm so cheerful

Chorus:
I play on the harmonica
For the people in view
It's unfortunate that birthdays
Only come once a year

A magician suddenly flies in
In a blue helicopter
And freely plays movies
He will wish a happy birthday
And will surely leave me
Five hundred Popsicles as a gift

Chorus

Now it's time to move onto what is really the cream of the crop: Hedgehog in the Fog (Ёжик в Тумане, or Yozhik v Tumanye.) I've provided you the link to a subtitled version of it, but in case you don't want to devote thirteen minutes of your life to it, this tummy-tickling children's tale goes something like this: a hedgehog, or yozhik, sets out at dusk to meet his friend Bear (медведь, or medved.) Apparently, this is a nightly tradition: Yozhik brings the jam while Medved provides a campfire and his bear-y goodness, and together, they watch the stars. You know how boys' nights out go. Anyway, we can see from the start that it's just not little Yozhik's night--judging by the look on his face, he is experiencing some sort of spiritual turmoil. Either that or indigestion--it's hard to tell with Russians sometimes. During his stroll through the meadow dividing his house from Bear's, he meets a white horse shrouded in fog. As any normal person would do, he begins to wonder how the horse is able to live in the fog without choking to death. So, of course, the next logical step is to go into the fog to find out.

Along the way, it becomes clear that he is indeed experiencing spiritual turmoil and not indigestion. In a flurry of action, he is chased by an owl, a dog, and an assortment of unidentifiable birds until he falls into a river. Instead of scurrying to make his way out, he thinks to himself (and these are his actual words:,) "Well, I'm might as well let the river carry me along...I'm totally soaked. I'll drown soon." During this time, his indigestion-spiritual-turmoil expression never leaves his face--he literally does not give a flying wombat that he's drowning. However, a mysterious creature saves him, and from this he somehow figures out the meaning of life and goes to Bear's house to eat jam and watch the stars.

A snapshot of pretty much every date I've ever been on. Hopefully you can guess who the bear is.

Normally, I try to dig a little more deeply into seemingly depressing works to find a happy meaning, but truth be told, I really can't piece this one together. Oh, well; it does seem to explain a lot about why Russians turn out the way they do.

Now, when I see a page full of fifteen-minute cartoon videos, my first thought is, "Why wouldn't anyone want to devote their entire nights to watching these?" However, as I know that most people have lives, I would understand if you grow tired of my cartoon ramblings and want to leave. You now have my permission to leave the page. If you are one of the two who want to read on (aka Mom and Dad,) here are some more for you.

Ну, погоди! (Nu, pogodi! or 'Just you wait!'): the Russian version of America's "Tom and Jerry." In it, a chain-smoking wolf chases a cross-dressing hare in the hopes of making it his meal. A lot of people (particularly government officials of the time) believed that the creator was supporting struggles between the working class and the intelligentsia (the wolf being the 'working class' and the hare being 'the intelligentsia'), as well as the promotion of gay rights (occasionally, the wolf would give the hare flowers, and, as the Russians say, "Menly men do not give of flowers to menly men friends."

Okay, I don't really count this as Russian animation, but it's only two minutes long and strangely riveting. I guess when you live in a practically sun-less place and continuously bottle up all feelings of happiness, you get...this. Enjoy.

To the creator's credit, this probably only cost about $2.00 to make.

Okay, last one, I promise. One genre of animation that particularly fascinates me is animation used as propaganda; it's one of the phenomena that sparked my interest in the subject in the first place. Caricature versions of famous figures are always interesting to see in paper mediums, but when you give them movement and voice, it adds a whole new depth, and, in my opinion, is much more influential to the crowd. It's my belief that we connect more with cartoon characters than we do with, for instance, characters or actors in films, especially when it comes to children. The USA itself (mostly through Disney and Warner Brothers,) has created well over fifty propaganda cartoons--most having debuted during the Second World War--using some of the world's most beloved and well-known animated figures. For instance, did you know that before working with Michael Jordan in one of the 90's most beloved movies, Bugs Bunny sold exploding ice cream bars to unsuspecting Japanese soldiers nicknamed "Slanty-Eyes" and "Monkey-Face?" 

Face it, Golden Age Bugs Bunny cartoons are enough to give brain hemorrhaging to pretty much every conservative suburban mother that ever sat in on a Parent-Teacher Association meeting.

Or, for that matter, would you have guessed that Donald Duck laid down after a long day of making Disney magic happen to dream of working as a Nazi in one of Hitler's bomb factories? (Actually, a lot of people took this cartoon (In Der Fuehrer's Face,) as a declaration of Walt Disney's anti-antisemitism and Nazi views; while he did hold these opinions, the segment itself was actually commissioned by the government as a WWII propaganda piece. True, the image of Donald screaming "Heil, Hitler!" for the first nine minutes may be a tad misleading, but he vindicates himself in the end by waking up in a pair of stars-and-spangles pajamas, hugging a miniature Statue of Liberty, and saying, "I'm so glad to be a citizen of the United States of America!" Or, as it sounded in his voice, "AhhshhoglatbeeashitishenahthUnaht'dShtatshhofAmair'ca!") 

You can probably see why some people took this the wrong way.

AMURR'CA

Now, I could write at least five other blog posts on American cartoons, but sadly, that is not what I am here to talk about. The Soviet Union produced significantly fewer WWII propaganda animation pieces than the US, but this was mostly due to the extreme hardships faced by Russians during the war that were not present in America. In fact, from 1941-1943, союзмультфильм, or soyuzmultfilm-the company that produced most Russian animation- was relocated to Uzbekistan. After the war, they began to more actively produce propaganda cartoons, this time directed at the evils of American capitalism. I'll include a link to one, since it's beautiful and incredibly-done, but as I don't want to stir up no hard feelings, I'll just post some of their greatest WWII pieces. 

This one, Кино-Цирк, or Kino-Tsirk (Kino Circus,) depicts a rather flamboyant Hitler in three different situations. I really hope you can figure out the meaning yourself.

This one is perhaps even more obnoxious than the previous, but I still think it's well-done. Anyway, the title sounds pretty boss when read in a Russian accent.

Well, I think I've said far enough for now. Only nine days until I come back to the true Motherland, or until the end of the world. Perhaps the two are correlated. 

In Which I Have Titillating Adventures

My beloved people;

I would first like to apologize to all of you avid readers whose thirst for Russian knowledge has gone un-quenched during the past month or so. It turns out that the crazy party atmosphere of Rovaniemi, Finland was just too much for my body to handle, and I have thus spent the past week with an ear infection somethin’ fierce and screaming in an elderly fashion at the young Russian hooligans to speak louder so that I could attempt to understand their mockery.

So, here’s the down-low: as you would probably rather work a bake sale with Nicholas Cage than read about every excruciating detail of my travel week, I’m going to pick out a highlight or two from each of the places which has had the opportunity to be blessed with my presence. I will also include some fun and colorful pictures for all the visual learners who are overwhelmed by the sheer amount of text.

The first destination was the magical city of Kiev, Ukraine. Unfortunately, as I am the last to know about anything ever, and also due to some technical difficulties in the life of Alyssa Lindley, I was too late to sign up for the evening flight and was thus put on the “God’s not even awake yet” plane (aka 7:30 am on what is possibly the most questionable airline of all the questionable airlines there are in Russia.)

It's a good day to die.

 Nevertheless, the Little Russian Plane that Could struggled on, and we made it to Kiev to find ourselves greeted by boxed lunches of hamburgers, Coke, apple pastries, and hard boiled eggs. I may have swallowed a small Ukrainian child in my ferocious eating frenzy.

Unfortunately, we were only given about 22 hours in the city before boarding an overnight train to Moscow, so although it was quite beautiful, it kind of passed in one tired, borscht-filled blur. Churches (many churches) were explored. A hill was climbed. Delicious food was consumed. In general, merriment was had. Here are some pictures.

In which I try to get artsy but fail as I suck at all things photography-related.

Probably one of the most interesting experiences we had was in the catacombs, which are still active and open to worshipers  We and what seemed like about two hundred others were lead underground into small tunnels containing the dead bodies of saints and monks. While it was a struggle to make my way through hallways that are not specially designed for the horizontally-challenged, I managed to endure without injury to myself or others. Most people carried candles to light the way; I don’t think they trusted us Americans to hold anything with a flame on it, so we simply relied on others’ firelight and our imaginations. Apparently an American girl’s hair caught on fire, so perhaps it was good we weren't given candles.

Add 20 pounds and a bigger block of cheese and this would probably be the most accurate picture of my time in the Catacombs.

On another, more serious  note, my group and I had the privilege of visiting Kiev’s amazing Museum of the Great Patriotic War (WWII.) Growing up in America, we've always kind of learned that it was the good ole’ U.S. of A. who won World War II. In Russia, though, people think differently; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked during random encounters with Russians, “So, we hear that in America, you think you won World War II!” (Okay, I probably can tell you—it’s around four. Maybe a few more since my comprehension abilities at the beginning of the semester resembled those of a cow with a concussion.) Now, I’m not saying that’s not true, but I’m also not saying that it is true—in the end, I think it was a combination of the efforts of all the Allies. Except for France, maybe; France was kind of like that alternate on the basketball team who sits on a bench the whole time but still gets to go to awards ceremony when the team wins the championship. At least, that’s my humble opinion expressed through my professional analogy-writing abilities. In any case, the museum did allow us to see one of the world’s most devastating wars through the eyes of someone else; a change of perspective can be helpful sometimes. However, I'll hop on off the soap box, as some would say.

At about 5 pm, we boarded our overnight train to Moscow. As I said before, my body is somewhat sensitive and would probably be the first to go in the case of a world epidemic, so I was almost immediately hit with motion sickness. The conductor, who didn’t seem to actually be conducting anything, seemed to take a special interest in our group and attempted to entertain us with a teething ring whose origins are still unclear. At one point he tried to put it on my ring finger. The wedding is occurring next month; save-the-dates will be sent out posthaste.

Me and my future husband. Sorry about the calves/thighs.

In all seriousness, though, Moscow was actually pretty incredible. I say “actually” because, to tell the truth, pretty much everyone I talked to about it beforehand said it was big, gray, kind of grim, and incredibly Russian. But you know what? I think it’s time to bring back a little segment that hasn’t been seen by the likes of this blog in a while. That’s right—it’s FUNformation Time! In case you aren’t familiar with Russia’s geographical history, Moscow was first referenced in 1147 by a little man named Yuri Dolgorukie. This, as you hopefully know, was the country’s capital until an even littler man by the name of Peter the First (Пётр Первый, or Pyotr Pervii,) came along. If you remember one of my earlier blog posts, he was the very same rapscallion who collected fetuses in jars and hammered out sticks of iron. Along with his unhealthy obsession with pickling, Peter had a certain liking for European culture and, when he became tsar, completely reinvented the Russian capital (which he immediately moved to St. Petersburg.)  Consequently, St. Petersburg is now known as the “Venice of the North,” and decidedly “European” (or at least, it wants to be. It can talk to me when it does something about the hordes of old women in head scarves trying to sell me strings of dried fish off the back of a truck.) While it was helpful for Russia to change up the routine a bit, it meant that a kind of cultural division formed between the two cities; those who like the European style tend to prefer St. Petersburg, while the people who do things the Russian way enjoy Moscow.

Perhaps what I was expecting.

Now that that’s done, or now that you’ve gotten bored and started to look up videos of adorable chinchillas doing tricks, let’s move on to some descriptions of Alyssa’s Titillating (Moscow) Adventures. The Red Square, which was the setting of Soviet and soldier parades and is the home of St. Basil’s Cathedral, was absolutely beautiful. Naturally, we talked loudly in English and took the most touristy pictures possible. These touristy pictures follow.

At one point, my friends and I were unknowingly pulled into a National Unity Day ceremony in which we laid red carnations on the steps of St. Basil’s. While we are not actually Russian, I hope the all-seeing Putin forgives us and smiles upon us for being culturally appreciative.  Pictures follow.

Aside from that, we visited churches (surprise, surprise,) parks, monuments, a few too many souvenir stands, some museums, and, of course, the all-powerful Kremlin. In case you don’t know, the Kremlin is like Russia’s Great Wall of China, except a tad smaller and occupied by Rootin’ Tootin Putin and his band of merry men (aka Prime Minister Medvedev.) Much to my sadness, we did not get to meet the world’s most unsmiling president (he was probably nursing his back back to health after flying with the cranes,) but we did get to see a museum with dresses and glass eggs and carriages and weapons. Also, in case you’recurious, here’s a link to 50 pictures of Putin being a badass. Don’t get me wrong, I’d take Barack over Vladimir any day, but I bet you’ve never seen a shirtless Obama riding a horse or posing next to a tiger in camouflage. However, Barack does get some brownie points by being able to take family pictures in which he doesn’t look like he wants to jump off a cliff.

Here's one for the Christmas card, Svetlana!

I won’t spend a long time talking about Finland, but I would like to let you know that I met the real Santa Claus. Our conversation went something like this:

Us: Hello!

Santa: *silence*

Us: So, how are you, Santa?

Santa: *more silence* Where are you from?

Us: Oh, we’re from America. You have a lot of presents here! Any of them for us?

Santa: Do you know who’s going to be the next president?

One of the last remaining parts of my childhood died that day. I also fulfilled my life-long dream of riding a sled pulled by the majestic beasts we call huskies. As my friends thought it was too cold, I trucked it out solo and spent the afternoon rolling euphorically on the ground with a kennel full of puppies. I think even the woman in the crocheted dog sweater pitied me a bit. Also, on a side note, I discovered Finnish cheese. This photo depicts how I spent the remainder of the trip:

Other than that, my vacation in the party capital of the world was pretty calm. We visited an awesome museum, went on a day-long hike, drank some of the most delicious hot chocolate ever made, ate at what is supposedly the Northern-most McDonald’s, watched Balto, and saw the Northern lights. Pictures follow.

Well, I suppose that about sums up my travel week. Sorry about taking so long to put it up; I know all of you were checking the internet at least seven times a day to find out what’s going on in my oh-so-exciting life. I promise the next one will be more exciting and more prompt—thanks for reading! And to all my American friends/family, see you in a few weeks!

PS—on a side note, it’s been snowing here like the Abominable Snowman in a dandruff commercial. 

My walk to school.

PPS-- 

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