Russian-American relations

Even five years ago (so I’ve heard), being American in most far flung Russian towns bestowed celebrity status overnight. By morning, every local wanted to get a piece of the liberal democratic capitalist action, and you couldn’t go anywhere without getting some variation of the old royal treatment. It was partly a relic of the Soviet days when every westerner on some semi-official business had some handler to make sure the floors were swept, the doors were opened, and the rooms were extra hot. Back then the only Russia a westerner could visit was often limited to Moscow and Leningrad as many other places were “closed.” Such was Ulan Ude. Melissa suggested that perhaps we were among a the first set of westerners ever to have lived in our particular suburb. This may explain why recently, after apparently years of inaction, dozens of women dressed in scrubs showed up to renovate the dimly-lit, urine-soaked, asbestos stairwells.

But probably not. More likely is that the man-whose-name-we-don’t-know-who-always-comes-over-late-at-night-wearing-a-track-suit is a spy, keeping close tabs on us. While we’re a subject of intense fascination, we’re not exactly celebrities anymore. It’s clear that everyone recognizes us as foreigners, no matter how much leather we wear, or how well we mutter demands in Russian, or how hard are our stares. The security guards, as common as police are uncommon, shadow us throughout the stores, listening to their walkie-talkies. Either they think we’re going to take something or they want to take something from us. I think they just want us to feel suspicious. It doesn’t help that Melissa’s dark skin allies her with the Gypsies, John’s Asian (more acceptable here of course, but never completely alright), and I look like a dumb western European.

The Russians here have a lot to gain from us, but it’s unclear where our understanding of the world fits into theirs. When we ask them about Russia, their political system, they don’t say much; they’ve got a lot to say about America, but it tends to be just as informative. I know they’re holding back. Sometimes they like to practice their English on us, which I’m happy to accommodate (many Russians have some knowledge of English, only few of those I’ve met dare try to speak it); mostly though we remain on opposite sides of an invisible fence, not out of anything specific other than our foreignness. What are you doing in Ulan Ude? How can you possibly get any work done in two months? (Many cell phone photos). On the bus or in the store or the bar, the whispering is unmistakable: “Americanitz, taam.” I can’t tell what’s behind that simple there. Some weeks ago, Melissa overheard them saying something like, “Typically, when you stay in someone’s home…,” but as with the email she happened to see from our Moscow liaison Marina to our host mama, she didn’t catch the most crucial words. That missive read something like, “Melissa emailed me today to ask about the money… These kids must be crazy. I don’t understand—they all requested home stays [not true, John pipes in] and all they’re doing is complaining. I’m sorry they’re causing you so much trouble. It’s really….” What comes next may provide the clue to our cultures’ real relationship. We don’t know what it said.