Return + 3 Weeks

Hard to believe that it is over and that I've been home for three weeks already. While I should be working and doing something productive, I opted to bang on the keyboard for a few minutes and start putting some official closure on my first real blog (where real is defined as having a readership greater than or equal to one, self excluded).

Last weekend four beautiful women and I tested out my new car and went camping on Assateague Island. The weather was perfect and, apart from the Atlantic Ocean being saltier than the Baltic Sea, so was the water. I don't think I could have imagined a nicer time for myself, but something was missing. Besides the sunscreen on my legs, that is.

Saturday evening when the sun dipped behind the dunes, people clad in swimming attire started to shiver. Some stuff had to be taken back to the Troy-mobile anyway, so one of the girls and I headed back to the car. While she changed inside the tinted windows I hid behind a leafless tree and did likewise. Grabbing what people had asked for, we headed back. Almost to the beach, we spotted Anastasia, my girlfriend. I showed her the stuff she had asked for, but she needed something else so back I went (trip two). After another changing session while I took pictures....of the sunset....I headed back for the beach. Who should I run into this time but Katia coming for some forgotten foodstuffs. I suppose I could have said, "Enough is enough, here are the keys," but I didn't, and proceeded to make my way to the car for the third time.

That is a long-winded way to say that I walked to and from the car (maybe a 4-minute walk each way) with three different Russian chicks over the course of a half hour. On the return trip with Katia, she asked how I was adjusting back, how things had changed while I was away, or something like that. I started out with my standard response, but forgot that I had already told her that. I tried to answer as honestly as I could. The answer surprised me a little bit, not because I hadn't thought it before (I had), but because of what it meant.

My answer:
I expected the transition to be huge, but it really hasn't been. Why not? Maybe because I created a situation for myself where there wouldn't be enough time to think about what had changed. For example, I arrived home Tuesday evening and finished talking with the folks about 1. However, my time-table was really screwed up (took over a week to get back on track) and I didn't hit the sack until 3ish. Wednesday morning I was at work by 8:30 where I worked a full day.

I said that I had been keeping myself busy. She asked when I would take the time to think. I answered that on my business trip at the end of the month, maybe sooner.

Only afterwards as I drive about or stare at a computer screen is the realization of this conversation sinking in. I need to make time and think about myself, my loved ones, my country, my life. By itself that isn't all that daunting a task. The hold up for me is looking at the after effects of my think session. It is impossible for me to know exactly what they'll be until I think them, but like a purple-mountain majesty in the distance, I'm pretty sure I see the outline of my own hill and it scares me.

So how was the transition? For me, I'd say it has been a no go. I didn't transition, but merely plopped back into the rat race. I may want to, but I'm scared. Perhaps a morbid analogy, but one that seems to fit. When a person dies, the undisputed best way to deal with the pain is to grieve. Everybody has their own way, but there are several major steps in the grieving process. When my grandpa was dying I tried to shut off all the emotional valves in my body because hurting just didn't feel good. When he finally passed away I remember plenty of relatives crying, but I didn't. Of course it hurt, but like a closed bottle of pop, I kept it in. Even soda has an expiration date. That is to say that time has a great way of healing wounds. My analogy being that I'm dealing with the loss of my adopted city, home, culture, language, and friends as I have historically dealt with death. Experience tells me it isn't the best way, but I'm choosing not to listen.

Who knows, perhaps all this non-transitioning talk is my way of transition. On one hand it seems a pity to not finish the proverbial race. All I know is that all is not wasted on my journey of self-discovery if I refuse to take the last few steps.

Roger Shattuck in his tome Forbidden Knowledge presents, in my opinion, conclusive evidence that some things are better left unknown. Yet humans are curious. The inherent friction between these two warring factions creates a good deal of the problems faced by the modern world. Of course it has also created many of the niceties.

About 12 years ago I started my CD rampage at the Howard County Public Library. I checked them out left and right. I think my record was somewhere around 60 albums out at once. Did I listen to them all? Nope. But listen I did. One album was the soundtrack from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Aspects of Love. I remember that the first time through I really didn't care for much of the music. Fortunately, I subjected myself to another round after a week or so and some of the songs really clicked with me. The past couple of days I misremembered the lyrics to one of the songs. Instead of love changing everything, I remembered, "Time, time changes everything...Nothing in the world will ever be the same."

Negative 26 kopeks

Well folks, this is just about it for the TAWL blog. Here is how I see its future. In about a week I'll post my initial impressions upon reentry into the US stratosphere. Then a month or so later will follow what I think I've learned about the world, God, and, most importantly, myself. Unless I have big document problems when I attempt to leave this fine place in about 8 hours, this is my last post from within Russia.

All good thing do not have to come to an end. They just need to change shape a little bit. Before this year finishes, it is my goal to finish approximately five additional entries that are either partially finished, or completely planned and unwritten. Coincidentally, all five could come from the past two and a half weeks, but I'll try to spread them out a bit more. Gazing farther down the road of time, this blog has been about my trip to Russia. A large reason for that country was the language spoken there. Therefore, this blog should ideally be bilingual. That requires that I know Russian. Realistically, if I spend some quality time daily practicing my Russian language, within five years I think I could attempt to translate this epistle without losing all of the biting humor.

The youth camp that I attended from August 4-8 was absolutely fabulous. For many reasons. One of them was the beach. As a wee lad I loved to wake up early in the morning and just walk for as long as I could. I was able to resurrect this pastime of mine and do some quality thinking. It was on one such walk on Friday, August 4, that I finally realized my time in Kaliningrad was almost over. Sure people back home had told me that repeatedly, but it only sunk in then. Walking, deep in thought, I came to the conclusion that whether I liked it or not I'd soon be leaving. It is difficult to describe emotions, so I'll forge on; realize that this afternoon stroll was incredibly useful for me.

Before I left for the camp, I chucked a few Russian songs onto my mp3 player. Ten to be exact. So far I've translated three of them I think. One in particular will always be associated with my weekend walks on this particular Kaliningrad shore. I'm not exactly sure where my notebook is with my translation, so for now I'll just paste a link to the song. Enjoy it for its beauty now. Later, when I post the English equivalent, possibly you may enjoy it for its words also. Without further ado, Mir bez liobimogo (A world without a love).

Upon arrival back in the city, rain came. Not just a little rain - a flood. I renamed Moskovskii Prospekt, the River Moskva because of the amount of water. I had a great chuckle at this. Not 3 months ago this road was redone and guaranteed for ten years. Already in two stretches the road was not visible. The sidewalk a good foot above the road was not visible. Only trees and the top halves of some unfortunate cars were visible. On Tuesday alone, over 500 large trees fell down in the city. Not very nice weather.

Most of that week I spent in the office trying to finish up the beginnings of a database for the center. I did not meet with success unfortunately and they still have nothing usable.

The evening of August 12 found me participating in yet another wedding. I still don't quite understand all the details, but the final details were only decided on a short time before the shindig kicked off. Most of the program therefore was a quick re-adaptation of the wedding two weeks ago. When you start a long program at 4ish in the afternoon, that is okay. When it starts at 9:30 in the evening, that can be problematic. I was home a little after 2, so that isn't too late, but it seemed much longer.

Possibly as a result of this late evening, possibly as a result of my mood, and possibly because of sunspots, I was a bit lethargic on Saturday. I haven't figured it out exactly, but I'd say that maybe my new rate is slightly less than a dollar a picture. Yes, somehow, somewhere, I lost the camera loaned to me by Ira. Most likely it happened on the busride back from church to school. As I sat there with a plastic bag on my lap wide open, I slept. Seeing a nice looking camera and a dead asleep dude may have been too much for some bargain shopper. Or maybe I just dropped it someplace. In any event, I realized it was gone, kicked myself in the head a couple of times, and continued on with life. (One note is in order here. I opted not to tell Ira, the accountant, that I lost her camera. Not entirely the most honest thing to do, but I did it. I was able to find an exact replacement for everything so she shouldn't be able to find out.)

My first trip to the Russian banya followed on Saturday evening. It was a private banya and the guy who we visited had some German WWII relics. Sasha, Kostya, and I played dress up for a few minutes before making our ways to the banya. I have to say that it is indeed nice. But I don't think that I love it with quite the same fervor as a real Russian. Maybe it is something that comes with time and much alcoholic consumption. We left somewhere around 2 and before long the driver wasn't able to stay awake so we pulled over for a quick nap. Maybe two hours later a crazy driver almost hit our parked car and this provided enough of a wake up call that we were able to proceed home without further incident.

to be continued....
I need to go meet a friend in Moscow and further details will have to wait.

The day; the life

Nothing more, nothing less. No commentary (I don't think I can not do that myself). I shall attempt to relate what I did during the last 24 hours - aka August 4, 2005.

The stroke of midnight found me seven minutes from Victory Square. I had just decided to stop practicing the trumpet because a light rain was beginning. Of course I didn't have a coat, but that is a minor detail. Man with trumpet case, camera pouch, and headphones - nice!

I wanted to photo the city at night but wasn't sure at what time exactly the lit fountains stopped working. Sometime before 0:07, the water stopped its spouting. Still, I managed to photo a few interesting things. The tabletop tripod that I use makes for some unusual angles when placed on the ground, but pain in the legs and dirt on the pants gets old. The added two feet of a trumpet case seems to be just what the doctor ordered.

Home a bit before 2, I showered myself and grabbed a small bit of grub. After checking my email I figured it'd be in the best interest to call the girlfriend and see what she was up to. She was searching (successfully) for potatoes in the supermarket. Spent a bit more time proofing the dead dish before she got published. While that was happening, I IMed (what is the correct spelling of IM when used as a verb, anybody?) one of my students. Last night was our last class and just said hi and joked around a little bit. A bit later I had another chat session with the girlfriend. Promising to go to bed soon, I closed the chat program and let her attend to her burnt potatoes.

By the time I finally sacked out it was somewhere around 4 and I hadn't finished my homework for Russian class. Fortunately, the alarm didn't disturb my slumber and I finally lumbered out of bed a quarter to nine. Rushing around, I started breakfast and then set about finishing up my final test for Russian. About two hours later I was as done as I was ever going to be and threw some clothes on, dashing out the door chomping on a fresh stick of gum.

The ladies at the office had asked me to bring some of my ties to work so they could play dress up Troy. I obliged them and brought a smattering of my funnier ones. Since today was my final Russian lesson, I was in a bit of a rush to scan a book that I had to return. It was actually pretty nice - I explained my minor escapades of the prior evening and every 20 seconds or so pressed the scan button and flipped a page of the book. Before long, Valya realized that she was sitting at the computer, yet I kept reaching over her to press the 'Next Page' and then 'Scan' button. She decided to be helpful. It was fine and then her bright blue eyes noticed that the area to be scanned was roughly the size of a postage stamp. Fortunately, only ten pages had passed since the frame was changed and I finished without incident.

I gave my first lesson in the fineries of Skype and tried to answer questions as accurately as possible. Leaving my bag of ties, I promised to return before the end of the day so they could make lovely photos together with me. One glance at the clock on the mobile told me that I would not be on time for my lesson. Boarding the bus, I phoned my teacher and told her I'd be about ten minutes late. While on the bus I got out a small piece of paper and made a list of pieces I could play including necessary vocabulary words in preparation for my farewell concert.

Maybe half way from the bus stop to my language school a horn honked. Who should pull over next to me but the director of the Privet! Russian Language School. It was great to have a ride, and she taught me some new phrase on the way. Naturally, it has slipped my mind. Nine minutes late, I entered the classroom.

Sitting down, I braced myself to review the test. After I returned all the materials that she had lent me, my teacher pushed a book across the table in my direction. She explained that it was her present to me and then proceeded to sign it. "The Rules of Russian Grammar" - just what I need (no, really)! Maybe two minutes before the thought had crossed my mind that I should give something to my teacher for all that she has done. But I consoled myself with the thought that I could bring some flowers by next week sometime.

I only found my eyes closed unexpectedly one time during our lesson. The test was pretty far over my head I think, but after looking the words up in the dictionary I got most of it. A few minutes past two, my teacher asked me if I was ready for the concert. Ready or not, it was gonna happen, so I packed up.

Two or three weeks ago I brought my trumpet with me to my language lesson so that I could practice later that evening without an intermediate trip home. One of the staff asked me to play a few things, which I did. The idea was born that I should give a concert and I agreed. Naturally, I thought I'd sit down and pick out some interesting things to play and maybe even prepare small explanations for each piece so that my Russian was understandable. I don't think a scrap of paper and a 10 minute bus ride qualifies. Anyhow, without so much as a warm-up toot, I explained my first piece and set off. Judging by the time I finished I probably played for 25 or 30 minutes.

A small surprise for me followed - a cake with some kind of berries. I think they just wanted me to take it home, but I quickly asked for help and in 10 minutes all that remained were two small slivers. A hair past three I bid my final adieus and with my bilingual certificate in hand I exited the building. Entering my bus, I eventually found my way to the bus station where I purchased a ticket for 6:20 tomorrow morning. On a rainy weekend I'm headed to the beach to sleep in a tent (cue Mommy's voice, "Do you have rocks in your head boy???").

Thinking of a farewell present for a certain somebody, I stopped by a nearby camera store and looked at what they had available. After I promised Anastasia I would hit the sack earlier this morning, I actually looked around for cameras a little bit and found one I thought would work. This store had the exact one in stock and I asked to take a peak. What do you know but the battery was dead (or as they say over here, eaten). I waited for ten minutes while the clerk charged it up a little bit so I could give it a whirl. The main thing I was looking for was how it felt in the hand and whether or not it had Russian menus. My head didn't work and I couldn't remember the correct way to ask what the stores hours were. I already knew, but just wanted to double check. After talking around the question for a few seconds the guy understood what I was asking but I blew my I'm-really-a-Russian-dude cover in the process.

Another bus ride home for a small snack. A few minutes before five I got off and was greeted by a strange sight. A fairly big banner with a metal frame was just laying on the ground. I looked at it, but kept on going. Maybe two minutes down my street I looked back and from the distance recognized that the metal frame was supposed to be mounted on the light post. The banner was from the city holiday a month ago and somehow fell down. By the time I opened my apartment's door I had decided to commit my bad deed for the day.

Without taking my shoes off I tiptoed through the kitchen and grabbed my pair of scissors. Back to the fallen sign I traipsed and liberated it from the frame, rolled it up, and returned to my residence equipped with a five foot or so souvenir. Dirty, yes, but rather slick. If you're wondering, the bad deed would be walking in the apartment without first removing my shoes.

Fed and my remaining ties in the backpack I departed for the last time today. When I hopped aboard the trolley-bus I chucked my ear-buds in and cranked up the tunes. Less than half an hour before closing time I made my way into the office. Valya and Galya (the daughter of the accountant) were lazing in their swivel chairs each wearing one of my ties around their neck. I thought it was pretty funny so snagged the camera and made a few memories real quick. The next twenty minutes were probably some of the more embarrassing of the day. First I taught Valya how to tie a tie the Troy way. Then we proceeded to tie all the ties. Then 4 on me, and 3 on each of the girls. Then all on me. Then all on my neck. Then I don't remember what. But there was a lot of laughter and nobody died, so that is good.

Ira, the accountant, finally said it was time to go and dragged her daughter off. I stayed and gazed deeply into Valya's eyes as I helped translate something for her friend. It sounded to be a profile of some desperate dude on a 'find your dream man' website. Translation complete, tea drinking commenced. We killed time for the next little bit until the evening lesson began. I'm the teacher and Valya is one of the students.

On the way to school we attempted to locate a barber that would still be open after class. I had forgotten that I wanted to get my hair trimmed before this weekend. Nothing promising found, I decided to finish class a few minutes early and try to make it back to my street before they closed. Our lesson was nice enough, only three people came. Before I knew it, it was over too.

At the bus stop. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then a trolley-bus. A trolley-bus that should have been put out to pasture long ago. I kept hoping I'd make it back in time, but I didn't. Nine minutes past the cut off for new customers I entered my salon.

Marshmallows. The sixth food group. The one that the Russians don't have. Not using my money for hair, I decided to search for marshmallow replacement for the bonfire this weekend. Three stops later I jumped off my favorite tram and commenced the search for marshmallow substitute. I found something similar that seemed to hold its shape decently while I pinched it. But only the first 7 pinches, though. On the eighth it kind of flaked away.

Before bringing useless food with me, might as well test it out, right? I fired up the stove and placed a marshmallow on my potato poker. A little bit sweeter than marshmallows, but similar characteristics. Even the skin pulls off when it gets brown. I dare say that my discovery burns better than marshmallows. At the end of the second marshmallow I decided to lick the skewer. Bad idea. Now the corner of my lips are missing a bit of their normal feeling.

I've probably forgotten some interesting things from today. But probably also some boring ones. That and in light of the fact that I've not packed anything and my bus leaves very soon, I'd say that this is enough of a day. Later I'll return and clean up the recount so that it is a little less monotonous, but for now please excuse my typos and repetitive, "and then I got off the bus and then I got on the bus and then the bus got on me and then boarded the tramway and then on the trolley and then and then and then...."

"Your dish, she is dead"

Funny how sometimes random things pop up and seem as if they were placed there on purpose. Monday morning I was using the computer. I don't remember exactly what I was doing, but it was evidently something that didn't not require a great deal of thought. I remember this small detail because, as a rule, I can't listen to music and think at the same time. Background noise is okay, but silence is my preferred operating environment. Anyhow, I was doing something on the computer and listening to random songs when something I'd downloaded several months ago came up. It was a recording of Steve Jobs' commencement address at Stanford University delivered on June 12 this year. I read a transcript of it a few days after the fact, but never got around to listening to it. I doubt that the contrast is as stark as the 1960 "Great Debates," but I walked away with a different nugget of wisdom than from when I read it.

Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future.

Just since Steve Jobs said it doesn't make it true - in fact it may give added reason to question it. Nonetheless, that morsel has given my brain some exercise as I sit staring out the window of transport. I suppose as I prepare for reentry into the fine US of A (think space capsule bulleting through the atmosphere), I've got questions. Trusting in myself, God, my lucky stuffed animal, or something else and not compelling myself to connect the dots exactly may be the best medicine. Let the bombs fall where they might and wait to evaluate the damage until after the war.

This weekend was mainly wedding preparation and execution for me. Suffice it to say that Russian and American weddings aren't exactly the same. Most of my experience in both cultures has been nestled within another sub-culture - that of Adventism. I don't particularly feel like comparing today, so I'll just state the facts. Sunday the religious wedding service began at 13. I sang in the choir so wound up standing up front for probably an hour or so. This section contained a homily, exchanging of vows and rings, some special pieces, and that is about all. It probably finished somewhere around 14:30. The second part was food so people headed outside and ate. The third part began maybe an hour later. For several hours the bride and groom sat at the front facing all the people seated there and people sang songs, did skits, made small presentations and whatnot. I think it finished somewhere in the vicinity of 20, but wasn't paying very close attention to my watch. And then the happy, unsuspecting couple drove off into the sunset ready to conquer the world together.

Saturday evening I got home from rehearsal a bit past midnight and went to bed shortly thereafter. A lady had given me a small scrap of paper with some kind of poem written on it. My instructions were to buy a lamp and then read this to the newlyweds sometime during the wedding. Not knowing whether a lamp meant a light bulb or a lamp, I opted for a lamp. Deciding I needed a bit of exercise on the overcast Sunday morning, I jogged down the street to the nearest store where I thought I could find a lamp. Unfortunately, I neglected to put a belt on and there were a few close calls with my jeans, my underwear, and the unwanted presence of distance between the two. The lamps in the place were kind of hokey, but beggars can't be choosers. (Especially when the beggar doesn't know exactly what time the wedding starts!) For 1040 rubles and 75 kopeks, I had a respectable lamp and headed home.

Now last week Elena went shopping for a new outfit for the wedding. A day or so later we were talking about that and she asked what I was going to wear. Naturally, I responded that I hadn't a clue. She told me something to the effect that I should go buy a white shirt, but I don't really like white shirts so I pretended that I didn't really understand and the conversation continued. It became rather obvious on Sunday that I really didn't understand. All the people who sang in the choir for the first section were wearing white tops and black bottoms. Except for me. In addition all the guys took their coats off, but I was a little bit late with that message too. It would be interesting to look at a picture of the choir. I imagine you'd see fairly uniform people and one dude in a dark jacket, blue shirt, and pink tie! That's me, the unique one.

I arrived before most of the people did and staked my claim to a seat leaving my trumpet, jacket, and lamp there. I think the whole day I occupied my spot for all of five minutes. When I wasn't on the stage singing or acting, I was in the hallway. It has been some time since I've had the pleasure of being backstage and goofing around - nice and fun. Of course that meant that I didn't enjoy the final version of most skits. But I had seen most of them multiple times prior, so I don't suppose that that is such a huge loss. There is one thing that I will rather miss. I asked Valya (my colleague) to record the skit I was in so I could share it with all y'all when I returned. When I explained how to use the video mode of the digital camera I was borrowing I either neglected to mention the part about pressing the record button or didn't say that very clearly. As a result she took the prime spot for videoing at the front of the room and thought she was making an excellent movie during my skit. When it finished she returned the camera to me and wanted to see what she had done. It took me a long time - maybe 2 seconds - to realize that no video had been made. I think that I told her there wasn't any video as nicely as possible, but it was rough by the time it made it to her ears and I could hear a sob making its way up her throat before she turned away. Score for Troy, make the girls cry.

Instead of playing the piece that I had rehearsed, I doodled around on some vocal piece for a verse and chorus on my horn. It wasn't bad, but I didn't particularly want to play it. But at least I shared the sound of the trumpet, even if it wasn't a good sound. By this time in the program, Valya learned about the record button and made a movie of me playing the trumpet. The memory card only had a small amount of space remaining, so instead of getting the whole song, she got just me. It is kind of funny, Elena is bringing the mike up to her mouth to sing and the movie finishes.

Plagued by insufficient memory, as the day wore on, I downsized the resolution of the pictures I was taking. Finally finishing up at good ol' VGA resolution. When the people left I stuck around for a little bit and helped clean up. There was lots of food left over so I helped by taking about 3 kilograms of fresh cucumbers home. They're almost gone now.

Not so long ago I updated the picture page. Feel free to check 'em out:

• 2005 June 19 - Walk with Volkov family
• 2005 July 30 - Pictures with the younguns at church
• 2005 July 31 - Wedding

I'm in the midst of trying to help a comrade immigrate to Australia. Last week there was a bunch of email activity and Friday evening not even a minute after rendezvousing for the customary constitutional my mobile rang. It was comrade Podkin wanting to review what I had found out. I assumed that it would be a quick information session, so suggested the Elena come on over and wait while I talked with Sasha (aka comrade Podkin) and then he could give her a lift home. She agreed. But brief is not exactly a good description of the Australian discussion. After a couple minutes, Elena asked if she could clean the kitchen. I should've said no, but it was kinda my fault that she was bored out of her mind and I agreed. When she finished she came back into the main room where Sasha and I were singing the Aussie national anthem and gearing up to play a quick one-on-one footie match. She explained something to me in Russian, but the delay between when the words were spoken and when I understood was too long, so she tried in English. "Тарелка (the Russian word for dish), she died." Ahh, priceless. My dish is a she. And not only is she a she, she was alive at one point in time. Live and learn, eh?

For my very diverse readership, what is the generic word for dish in other gendered languages? Is there any language in which dish is not female but male? I wonder if anybody has ever done a study to see if the dishes in use in such cultures represent their masculine/feminine status. Sounds like a big waste of time to me, but if somebody reads this and makes an experiment because of my idea, please send me a copy of your results - it'd be interesting.

A few evenings ago I made my way to the music building to practice after school. It was nine o'clock and the building was already locked. Come on now, isn't it supposed to be open for another half hour? Not wanting to go home without buzzing a bit, I headed to a large well-lit place a ways away from houses. In the shadow of the great Dom Sovietov, I practiced my horn. People stared, but that didn't bother me. Then an old man came up behind me with a funny grin on his face. I kept practicing, but he didn't move. So I decided to favor him with a rendition of some piece. At the end, he shook my hand and thanked me for playing such wonderful music and then staggered off. He stopped maybe three times and turned back to listen some more. There I was playing some notes that I considered to be highly unlovely and I made some old drunk guy's day. Interesting how that works - a person can receive something from me that I didn't give.

56 minutes 40 seconds

I hesitated to publish this particular entry because of the chain reaction it may cause in some people's minds. In the end I decided that this account of my life a year out wouldn't be complete without it. So here we have the beginning of a friendship from my vantage point.

What's in a name? Everything. I'm not totally sure of the year, but I think it was either '98 or '99. I was in high school and wondering how I could keep playing music once I got myself gradumacated. A youth orchestra that I'd heard of was giving a concert and I decided to go. Unfortunately, the director decided to have some major health problems and the orchestra concert was non-existent. As they say in show business, the show must go on. A bunch of the musicians threw together a solo concert. A few of the pieces were originals by a young Spanish composer - all of them pretty, but not cheesy. Somebody retold the story behind one such piece. It was the last day before the New Year holiday at a boarding school. There was a party happening. Some reconstruction had been underway and a wall was half way finished. Somehow the partially finished brick wall was knocked over and underneath the rubble was a girl. She died. Merry Christmas. Her name was Elena.

Occasionally you meet someone that just kind of clicks with you. "My grandmother used to say to me, 'You can count the number of your true friends on the fingers of one hand,'" reads the first line of a text about classes of friends I use with my Level 3 students. If the text is accurate, then over the past few weeks one of the available Troy-friend positions has been filled. Elena is just that kind of a friend, I think.

Before elaborating further, I would like to clarify that while yes, spending extended amounts of time with a member of the opposite sex does present challenges (for example, I have no concept of the discomfort high heels cause while walking in sand), it doesn't have to. A month or so ago a buddy and I were chatting on the Internet and the subject came up of dating somebody younger than you. He is in his mid-20s and we were hypothesizing about somebody in his position dating a 15 or 16-year-old girl. At first the thought was a bit strange, but as we talked I could see the logic. If the guy is a gentleman, there is not necessarily a problem. Relevance? Already many of you have raised questions about Troy and his new friend. I just wanted to pose another option that is at least as plausible.

So what goes into the promotion of your average Kaliningrad girl into the elite circle of Troy's intimate friends? If the truth be known, I haven't a clue myself. That isn't exciting to read about though, so here is one possibility.

Requirement number one: innately be Russian, yet not. What is the definition of a Russian? Thanks to a chilly war back a few years ago and the wealth of jokes and stereotypes which sprouted from it, Communism is a start. What is the Communist color? Red. That is true, but the red vein goes back farther than the Revolution. Long ago, red was the color associated with beauty and fondness. A few years ago I bought some Russian children's books on ebay. One was pretty old and every page had an abundance of red on it, particularly the objects important for the story. Also, the words for beautiful and red are very similar, but I am not an etymologist so don't know if there actually is a connection.

Is Elena red? Yes, very much so - from her hair to her customary coat to her freckled face. Okay, so now we've established that she is Russian. How about the yet not part? I don't want to generalize and say that all Russian chicks are bad nuts, but she seems to have a different core. Yeah, yeah, she has a reputation for not being the most punctual person and I get the impression that as a schoolgirl, the school part wasn't always at the top of her to-do list. Beneath that though is something similar to Chris Gekker's (my former trumpet teacher) concept of the perfect trumpet sound. Take a steel ball and then put cotton all around it. At first glance it looks/sounds soft, simple, sweet. Yet the more time one spends staring/listening to it, the weight within radiates its mass and makes the cotton come alive or disappear altogether, depending on the situation. Elena, the person, is a force to be reckoned with but this is only obvious after the cotton is both ignored and studied simultaneously. In the words of our favorite ogre, onions and layers...people and layers. Elena's inner layers are made of a different material altogether than your average Kaliningrad girl.

That was a whole lot of gibber-jabber about requirement one. Rather than make up some more mumbo-jumbo about something I don't quite understand, I'll jump back in time eight months or so. After church one cold Saturday morning, I boarded the bus bound for school. Who should come along but Elena. We talked on the bus ride back to town. Mostly she talked and I nodded and smiled. (Note: I should be ashamed of myself for my habit of nodding when I'm clueless about what is being said.) I did understand that soon she would be beginning to work as the baby-sitter for my boss. And that she would be attending a different church from then on out. From that time I saw her only occasionally when I stopped by to speak with the boss.

Difficult to stay when things started to change (my personal journal has been dead since shortly after I arrived), but I'd have to guess that it was sometime around 10:53 on the morning of June 25 when one of the young dudes at church asked me to help out with a wedding in a month or so. I agreed. The only problem was I had only been to the rehearsal location once. That one time was mid-September. Lady luck shown her face on me and for maybe the third time ever, Elena came to the Saturday afternoon English class. That was my ticket to the rehearsal location. Me being on the hungry side and she having some cookies to share was nice.

The following weekend was probably described a bit too much in detail already (prior post), so I'll make my additions short. I enjoyed Saturday evening's concert with Kostya (brother), Elena (sister), and Vika (cousin). When I bid them farewell, they promised to call me for the concert the following evening, and never did. Sunday afternoon when I saw Putin in his Benz-stretch, Elena was about 15 meters away on the other side of the street unbeknown to either of us.

More or less so far, we'd only happened to be in the same place when doing things. Then I offered to walk her to the bus stop one evening when I stopped by the boss's place. The conversation was nice and I asked for a repeat sometime else when she wanted company. Several days passed and then the phone rang. For the past two weeks, practically every day we have had a nice walk and talk. Last Friday evening was interesting, so I'll talk about that stroll.

We decided to try and rehearse a piece of music we wanted to play together. I had remembered that the music college closed at ten, so we came a half hour before closing time. My memory ain't what she used to be, so we came and the building was already locked. Stopping back at my place, I deposited my trumpet and then we headed in the direction of the bus stop. A light rain began to fall, but rain is nice and I asked what was on tap at home for Elena. Nothing too exciting, so we decided to walk. This turned out to not be such a good idea from the clothing department perspective, but from every other perspective, it was a blast. The rain picked up a little bit and this coupled with poor lighting and worse sidewalks made avoiding the swimming pool sized puddles a challenge. So why avoid them? Jump, splash, giggle, repeat. Eventually her home was in sight and I was clueless as to where I actually was. She offered to walk me back to the bus stop, but that seemed crazy and I crossed my fingers as she explained how to get back. A rather wet evening finished as I promised to call saying I got home safely (not the safest region).

Well, I knew which direction my home was, but some of the finer points of the route got lost on me. Thirty minutes later, I decided I better call and say that I would soon be home, so as not to cause any un-needed worry. The phone rang and a modem picked up. I tried again and the lady told me I had the wrong number. Oh well, homeward ho! I stopped by a store to buy some milk and finally got home a few minutes into the Sabbath. I had only gotten my shoes off when the phone rang. Standing in my sopping clothes and still with raincoat donned, I picked it up. "Why didn't you call me?!" "You gave me the wrong number." "Oops. How long have you been home?" "Not too long." The milk was sitting on the ground. Don't ask me what else we had to talk about, but we talked about it for a good little while. A few days prior I had stayed up late IMing a student and she told me a Russian lullaby. Cheating a little bit, I found the scrap of paper where I had copied it and recited some good night wish about birds and fish. Conversation finished, shoes with three days worth of drying ahead of them, and milk still sitting on the floor, my bed beckoned and eventually I heeded its call.

Saturday evening at rehearsal, there was a small shock waiting for me: Elena told me the amount of time we spoke the prior evening - 56 minutes and 40 seconds. The way I see it, this could mean any number of things, but I am choosing to view it as the juxtaposition of a person with a digital display on their phone and a good memory for numbers. If hearts are involved and I'm too blind or naive to recognize it, consider this my apology.

When I set out to write this entry, I thought it would be relatively easy to jot down a few thoughts about my new friend and why I value her friendship and gift of time. Re-reading the results, I must say that I'm not terribly happy with it in terms of readability, logical progression, or representing the reality. Rather then censor what I am unhappy with, I'll serve it up for your viewing pleasure. Sometimes thoughts, whether perfectly formulated or colorless, green, and sleepless, are better shared than kept.