When I moved to Russia, I lived with a Russian family for my first six months. Lena was a fellow school teacher at Peterschule, a special language school in St. Petersburg. I lived with her, her husband Igor, their two daughters Olga and Lera, and Igor's mother Galina Fydorovna (Babushka/grandmother). We lived in a three bedroom apartment on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, in a region that was pretty rundown.
When most people think of St. Petersburg, they think of the beautiful palaces and museums. I remember the really nice view of the nuclear reactor plant (Sosnoviy bor) from my bedroom window. The fact that this reactor was rated one of the most unstable in Europe did not make me sleep well at night! Perhaps this dose of reality has colored my perception of St. Petersburg?
No matter what the neighborhood was like, my Russian family took me in and took care of me during those first shell-shocked weeks of adjustment to life in Russia. Living in a foreign country in a family of strangers, suddenly getting two little sisters (I never had any growing up), and having to speak a foreign language 24 hours a day was a wee bit stressful at the age of 27. I'm sure having an American living in their midst was very peculiar for my Russian family, as well.
I learned more living in a Russian family for six months than I did in six years of college level Russian classes. Over endless cups of tea at the kitchen table I learned a lot about Russian friendships, life at the dacha, how to speak "kiddie" Russian with the children, and that Russians, unlike Americans, NEVER want to talk about work.
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Life at the dacha.
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At the dacha with Bagheera and Olga |
