Russian She-bear in American and British Settings. A cross-cultural travelogue

7. Don’t put things to dry on the conditioner; one of us was once woken up at night by a nasty smell of something burning – her socks in this case – just in time to prevent the alarm being set on.

8. Don’t completely ignore reading hotel instructions; brace yourself to at least leafing through whatever papers you are given at the reception desk – sometimes they might contain useful information.

The underlying idea was just to be careful and watching. Once on arriving at Charlotte, tired though she was, my colleague made an effort to open a small envelope – to find out that our status had risen to that of VIPs’. The revelation gave us a surprise in the form of a free meal (needless to say how we welcomed it after five hours of flying) and also a free access to the lounge bar and we enjoyed an excellent supper with a selection of refreshments. That was really a fine example of Southern hospitality.

We got amused with our being raised in status and took to experimenting. In our bathroom there was a note informing us that if we’d happened to forget any toiletries we’d immediately be supplied with any items we needed. In about five minutes after we called room service there came a maid and displayed for the astonished ‘VIPs’ (‘Very Impoverished Persons’ would be a much better name under the circumstances) what I’d call a weekly supply of toothbrushes, combs, soaps, shampoos etc. all nicely wrapped and ready. My roommate was the first to come to her senses and began making signs that the girl wanted to be tipped. In fact, the maid didn’t reject her dollar but more enthusiastically she welcomed our filling a service evaluation form with compliments for her efficient work.

Visiting classes

We were lucky to be shown not only what is considered common knowledge but also some novelties of school education. One of our most vivid memories was connected with visiting a music lesson in an elementary school where a brilliant guitarist was introducing alphabet andl pronunciation using songs and gestures. It was also fun to see an ad announcing a students’ performance of Pedro y el lobo, a musical by Prokofiev.

We were somewhat surprised to realise that apart from developing cross-cultural awareness, eliminating illiteracy still remains a serious problem for American teachers who largely have to work hard on reading and writing skills acquisition. EL teachers in Russia tend focus more on different other competences, reading and writing skills being – ‘historically’ – better developed. This is probably the key reason for that relative ease of adaptation typical of Russian students in the English speaking countries – the general level of literacy serves as a solid background for further learning.

We had a chance to observe classes in content-based discussion and reading. The former reminded me of preparatory department classes at our universities. The tasks were exactly the same – a challenging statement like TV is a waste of time, TV is the best source of information etc. for further discussion. But what startled me most was the fact that twelve students in an international classroom could painstakingly discuss all possible variations of the theme for about fifty minutes, while with the Russian audience this would last only for five, maximum ten minutes after which there would follow a request to change either the subject or activity.

As to the latter, I was surprised to find out that the teacher’s approach left much to be desired. The students in that class (false beginners) were given two pages of a densely printed text about architectural styles in building porches; the task was reading for details. While they were working, the teacher suddenly ‘remembered’ questions for reading comprehension and left the room to fetch them. The questions given and the task explained, the group went on reading silently. After half an hour of thus sitting I risked to ask how long the students were supposed to be reading – only to learn that it would take the whole lesson and if they fail to complete the task they would have plenty of time for it at home. From the students we got to know that reading that very text had been their homework for that lesson as well! The group also told us that the class we’d visited was no exception, only on that occasion we’d missed the so called entertaining element. Other teachers would spend most of a lesson making them play How to be a millionaire or similar games, or watch a thriller.

“And what did you expect?” my inner opponent broke in.

“They say modern technologies in education have a potential to work miracles,” I answered lamely.

“A potential, yes, highly likely. But is it comparable with miracles that an experienced teacher can work?”

Eventually we concluded that our American hosts wanted to show us all – not only the brightest – aspects of college life, even at a risk of sacking their employee.

Food experience

Finding your own way in dealing with food is always an exciting experience. Our acquaintance with this aspect of life began by a visit to a CVS Pharmacy where they sell little proportion of pharmacy proper and quite a variety of other goods. Our escorts, both Russian immigrants, took us there to show the cheapest way of shopping – probably relying on the idea that all their former compatriots should suffer from acute poverty and be willing to save every penny. They offered us to buy something to be further cooked in the hotel (in Washington we had the necessary facilities). But the goods on the counters differed very little from the usual stock of imported food at our shops in Russia.

Loaded with bags and packets we emerged from the shop – to be encountered by a street beggar who persistently demanded to be given a few dollars to buy himself some booth. Having nothing against beggars ‘as a strata’ but angered by his insolence (and probably moved by recollections of similar experience back home) one of the ladies found nothing better than to explain – and in good English – to the creature that she didn’t understand him. Drunk but not insensitive enough to overlook the peculiar incongruity, the beggar accused her of being a liar to that she bravely replied: “Sure, I speak English but not the *** American variant!” The rest was a matter of time – for him to recover from the shock, for us to establish a safe distance away from him.

Next time our escorts told us that we were going to have lunch at a Washington railway station. On hearing this I felt a bit uneasy, even she-bear found it repulsive and protested by scratching my insides. No wonder – for many Russians привокзальный ресторан evokes in mind a picture of the worst and the dirtiest place to eat, where beggars – like the one who had plagued us the other day – could be met in numbers and not so easily dealt with. Here was just another cultural lesson. What I thought was the lack of manners on our escorts’ part proved to be the lack of cross-cultural awareness – on my part, for I couldn’t imagine that in other countries those places could be quite decent. What I saw surpassed all my expectations; at the same time there was nothing so unattainable that couldn’t be introduced in our country – even a couple of decades ago. A huge basement floor housed a great number of counters with different national foods practically to any liking – meat, broiler chickens, salads, pastas, sea food, vegetarian diets etc. etc. It was all rather clean, reasonably cheap and with little queuing.

There were other options for having relatively inexpensive and substantial meals. You could enjoy a hearty dinner in a Chinese restaurant. Chinese cuisine – unless you take very spicy dishes – seemed amazingly close to what Russian palates are used to. Besides, five dollars hot dogs at a university cafe are nothing compared with the doggie food (remains of a huge five dollars restaurant portion) you could take home for supper. But perhaps the most common American habit is buffet style eating. You could feast for the same five dollars with as many helpings as you like somewhere in the suburbs or small towns; in big cities, however, even in a students’ canteen this kind of lunch or dinner will cost you a bit more.

Eating out soon became a minor problem – after I’d learned not to destroy decorative bunches of greenery which I once mistook for something exotic but edible (while helping myself to leaf salad) and not to order a shrimp cocktail for refreshment. Still, there lured a strange feeling constantly reminding us of being away from home, it was often intensified by scratching of my ever hungry she-bear who also seemed to miss proper nourishment.

No matter where we ate or what kind of food it was, it always seemed rather tasteless; even the most delicious dressings couldn’t improve things and in an hour or so we got as hungry as if we hadn’t got a crumb. We couldn’t find any better explanation for ‘the hunger syndrome’ than that of the quality of food. It looked somewhat artificial though appetising, and we justly attributed that to the use of hormones and nitrates – for most emigrants we discussed the issue with often confirmed our suspicions having had similar puzzling problems.

Evening service in Washington

It so happened that our arrival in Washington coincided with the beginning of Advent, the period of fasting before Christmas. However canonical rigours are always wisely alleviated for those who travel and I helped myself to a hearty dinner (as it was only common sense to do after a long and tiring journey) and decided to attend an evening service. I ferreted from a local newspaper that in Washington services were held daily, alternatively in English and Church-Slavonic. After consulting a map I chose St. Andrew’s for my pilgrimage as it was situated in a picturesque district of Georgetown.

At a quarter past seven I was standing in front of the beautiful Orthodox cathedral sanctified by the Moscow Patriarch Aleksey the Second during his visit to the USA in 1992. From the outside, however, nothing betrayed any signs of activity, the doors were locked and I was about to leave when at last my timid knocking was heard and somebody let me in. There were no onlookers, only about two scores of parishioners deep in prayer, and my arrival was almost unnoticed. The congregation were a motley crowd: mostly Americans and Afro-Americans in jeans and vests, a couple of Greeks – their church was just opposite the cathedral, half a dozen business-like choir ladies in pants and with bare heads, and three or four women wearing traditional dark robes and headscarves; to my surprise there were no reverend looking grannies, whose presence always adds a peculiar touch so characteristic of any Orthodox church in Russia.

Nobody paid any notice to me, neither was there a habitual candle-vendor – often a source of information necessary for newcomers and inexperienced neophytes. Still I decided to inquire about the local customs and icons; the latter were undoubtedly worth attention from both religious and aesthetic points of view. But when I approached one of my former compatriots (while questioning her I happened to mention where I came from) I received a curt answer in which even my not too sensitive ear caught upbraiding tones. Getting used to different modes of ‘welcome’ in churches back home I wasn’t much moved by her attitude and tried to focus on the service which was in English that day. I was prepared for it, if only theoretically so; once in an old-believers church in Moscow I chanced to come across a chant translated from Church-Slavonic into English and supplied with ancient musical ‘hook’ notation. But all my ‘homework’ proved to be of little value – very soon I realised that it would take much time to get used to the service so unusual. Its outer form, like, for example, a lot of knee-bowing performed with pious eagerness, was, of course, easier to observe and to follow.

The service finished, I stayed for a few minutes to ask a blessing from the bishop, an elderly Russian émigré who appeared to be remarkably understanding and attentive. Meanwhile the congregants began to disperse, the majority directing downstairs. There to my sheer amazement I found a basement cafeteria stuffed with a variety of tempting appetising cookies. I’d never seen anything like that in Russia, and for a split of a second – woe to my overcriticising mind! – I imagined that the next step would be to sell there beer, gin and tonic etc. But my she-bear wisely cautioned me not to impose our own rules on an unknown monastery – as an old Russian adage goes; it reminded me that, after all, I was only a guest in America. However, I reasoned, even in Rome one shouldn’t copy everything the Romans did and resolutely made for the exit.

Only outside, in the darkness of a deserted street, it came to me that the way back to the hotel could be ‘a bit of a problem’. I had secretly hoped that a motorised parishioner (all those present had come by cars) could give me a lift – at least to more lively quarters where I could hire a taxi – but in fact, nobody would go in that direction. There was a bus stop nearby, they kindly informed me, and I could get somewhere downtown and then take another bus which would probably take me to my destination. Or I could walk a few blocks up to the National cathedral: there was more traffic there and the streets were lit. My heart sank: the perspective of walking to the hotel on my own wasn’t much inspiring, but the picture of myself waiting alone for the bus in the unknown quarters at that late hour was even less attractive. Yet, for my sins I deserved nothing better than that. With a sigh I started moving up the street and after but a few steps I saw headlights of an approaching car. O, merciful God! – a taxi. But why was it moving so slowly, as if searching for something – or somebody? A terrifying thought; it didn’t help much to remember horror stories about the other, darker side of American city life.

With mixed feelings I stepped from the sidewalk and waved my hand. The taxi noiselessly stopped without turning off the motor and a young unsmiling Latino scrutinised me. I shivered unconsciously. “Where to?” he barked. Oh, my! In agitation the name of the place slipped from my mind. “Just a moment,” I mumbled as bravely as I could at the same time desperately searching my pockets for the writing pad with the name of the hotel. “You kidding or what?” came the reproach, and interrupting his suspicions and producing – at long last – the blessed pad – I almost stumbled: “Do you happen to know where…” Without waiting for me to finish he nodded and by the same gesture pointed at the passenger seat thus leaving me no choice but to accept the invitation.

I tried to make sure he understood me right by describing the hotel whereabouts but a kind of awkwardness still persisted. “Are you from Britain?” he almost startled me by a habitual tension reliever. I answered – anticipating some compliments concerning my accent as a topic for small talk. Least of all I could imagine what followed. His attitude towards me changed in a flash. The face, a minute ago so sullen, almost unfriendly, became one broad smile which only his kind could produce naturally. Forgetting for a second the traffic which was rather dense this time of the night he turned to me. “Yes, sure, I should’ve guessed that,” exclaimed he as if genuinely delighted; “you were returning from the Orthodox cathedral. Oh, God, you’re not the first Russian lady I’ve met this year in Washington!”

I thought I’d be very lucky if his hobby wasn’t to collect their scalps. How silly of me to have supposed so! All the way to the hotel turned out to be his continuous though passionate monologue about the crisis in Russia. He couldn’t imagine how it could have happened – in the country so rich in natural resources; he wondered how long could people endure being robbed to such an extent; he regretted the consequences of the USSR disintegration (he reasoned – not without logic – that destroying the balance of the world forces would inevitably affect quite a number of countries in the future) and – knowing Russian government leaders much better than I did – he blamed them for being weak and corrupted and scolded their counterparts in the USA for narrow views and snobbishness. But when I ventured a question whether he was a member of a communist or radical party – though I wasn’t sure if political organisations of that sort still existed in America – he shook his head and swore energetically, his opinion easily read.

How understanding and how sympathetic, I mused, was this guy – like so many Americans we had encountered, and how strikingly different was his attitude from that of our escorts who assumed the air of always knowing better (even in matters of our professional needs). Though both Russian émigrés, their ‘impeccable’ manners and pretended cordiality was but a mask to hide contempt at our dealing with problems, both at home and in the unknown premises.

Thus driving along night Washington I experienced a strange feeling, as if I had been taken years back, to Moscow of the Breznev’s era. Yes, everything seemed very familiar, surprisingly familiar – the same quiet streets of a big city about to go to sleep, a politically-minded (a bit too talkative but meaning no harm) taxi-driver leisurely touching the steering-wheel and an incomparable ‘aftertaste’ of the church service. The impression became so vivid that for a brief spell I completely forgot where I really was…