My post today is a little less anal, as I forgot my pen yesterday and was too lazy to write anything down today. I figure so long as I note to self that I took out 10,000r when I got here, I can watch my spending that way … ahem …

ANP is in a happier mood because (select all that apply):

1. It’s been sixty degrees and sunny the past two days
2. She’s done a lot of shopping
3. She’s run into / overheard half a dozen smiling English-speaking Americans
4. A construction worker from the Caucasus hit on her, making her feel like a non-ugmo
5. No one has killed her for being brownish
6. All of the above

Monday

Mirms had class today but the day was gloriously beautiful, so Marc & I walked the mile or so down to the Ermitazh / Hermitage. Unfortunately … as clearly stated in my Rough Guide … the Hermitage is closed on Mondays. (Ahem.) No matter, we were able to grab some grub (my beloved mushroom and cream bliny is called the “E-mail”; mead is kinda tasty too) at a Teremok kiosk. I also bought a non-bootleg (imagine!) 3-CD set marketed as a Thai Mix by DJ list but as far as I can tell, the only thing Thai about it is the funky silkscreen of a traditional Thai dancer on the outside (640r/$22, which is an outrageous price). This I picked up from an underground walkway en route to the Hermitage.

After being cock-blocked by the museum’s actual opening hours, it was either the Russian Museum (closed on Tuesdays!) or open air markets. Obviously I chose the latter. We walked down Nevskiy Prospekt, hung a right on Sadovaya Ulitsa and popped into their mall, Gostiniy Dvor. Anyone visiting should probably check out a mall (not necessarily that one) if only for the culture shock. I got some stuff at a stationery store for my family; Marc bought a beer (which you can drink on the street).

Something else random: M&M’s hot water got turned off just before I arrived. It was supposed to be off for only 8 hours, but ended up being off for 4 days. Luckily they have a spare water heater unit so no matter. Nonetheless … I had to take a superquick shower and I am not a superquick shower-er. Also, I have to be more careful about brushing my teeth here than in Mexico City. Whereas I used tap water in MC, I’ve been advised to stick to the Pur faucet here in SP.

We continued down Sadovaya Ulitsa and entered Apraksin dvor on the right. It’s basically a flea market, and almost every proprietor at a store or stand was from the Caucusus and/or Asian. Thus, they were so much more friendly and smiling. I felt the tension in my shoulders collapse as we puttered around. Luckily it was cleaning day and most of the stalls were closed, so it wasn’t mobbed and I didn’t need to worry about pickpockets per Marc’s advice. I took a lot of great photos here; it was off the main drag and thus slightly romantically crumbly (my favorite!). There was also a crew of Caucasian guys working on a “deluxe” shopping area within Apraksin dvor, and one of them was actually hitting on me. At first I thought he was yelling at me for taking a photo, so when I shouted back to him, “Ya ne ponimayu po-russki!“, he replied, in careful English, “MY NAME IS …” Aww, how cute! I acted like I was going to take a picture of him and he covered his face with his arms. Marc, meanwhile, was chuckling at the antics the whole time. I was just happy to not feel like a carnival freak for once.

We left Apraksin dvor, hung a left to continue down Sadovaya Ulitsa, and wormed our way through the bustle of Sennaya Ploshchad (the Haymarket made famous in Dostoevsky’s Crime & Punishment). The other day when we were getting onto the Metro here, a klezmeresque version of Whoops, I Did It Again, was being belted out from a vendor’s speakers. No such inundation with a Russified take on American pop culture today; we hang a left onto Moskovsky Prospekt and enter an open air food market, Sennoi Rynok on the left (about 100 m down the street; not visible from the sidewalk but you can kinda tell what you’re getting into). This is your basic farmers’ market, where the farmers are all from the Caucasus, and the produce is better than what you get at the store.

Here, you can see amongst the shoppers the old ladies who were children during the blockade, when the Nazis encircled the city to prevent access. These women are significantly shorter than everyone else (think: Guatemalan ladies on the 7 train in Queens) due to severe malnutrition during their formative years; the only thing that prevented total starvation was the trucks that delivered suppplies to the blockaded city via the frozen Lake Ladoga. The Nazis hadn’t considered that this might be possible, but the locals knew that the rivers would be solid as a rock. Speaking of which, there were ice floes drifting down the River Neva today and it was simply lovely. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The proprietors are again friendly; one even asks me to take a picture of him (I oblige). We get a random fried dough thing stuffed with “cabbage” ( = sauerkraut … yekk) from a stall and Marc later learns that part of his change included a counterfeit 10r bill.

We eat our food on a bench in the lovely sunshine, which is perpetually in the sky at NYC 3 pm, and then stop into a legit music store which sells a few legit CDs next to mostly bootleg CDs. I pick up Tiesto, Hooverphonic, Oakenfold, and Timo Maas CDs for a grand total of 360r/$13.50. (Marc wonders aloud why we’re so focused on Chinese counterfeiting and copyright law violations when Russia is so obviously part of the problem.) At this point, our legs are broken and Mirms is done with class, so we hop onto the Metro at Sennaya Ploshchad on the Pravoberezhnaya liniya (12r/45c), transfer at Dostoevskaya to the Kirovsko-Vyborgskaya liniya and get off at Ploshchad Vosstaniya.

We get home, pick up Mirms, and head out again to the Metro. This time we take the Nevsko-Vasileostrovskaya liniya to Lomonosovskaya stop. A word about the Metro. Them shits go fast. Sure, no one covers their mouth when the cough and yeah, people can talk on their cell phones the whole time (despite being mad deep … think 2x as the 59th street station, at least), but they’re incredibly swift (and much quieter than the NYC subways).

Getting off at the Lomonosovskaya stop, it’s clear that M&M live in the central area. Here there are random stray dogs about, the people smell markedly worse, and it’s a bit more decrepit in general. However, it’s also home to the Lomonosov factory, and I go hog wild with Lomonosov porcelain. It wasn’t on my to-do list, but Mirms had to go and she insisted I check it out as well. I’m so glad I did; I spend over 4,000r/$155 on tea sets and imagine myself throwing a tea party for all my girlfriends as we swish around in summer dresses while classical music plays sweetly in the background on my stereo. (I am totally serious about this.)

Side note: I got a discount for using my credit card here (one of the few places that takes plastic). I’ve noticed some work by Citibank (!!) mostly, but also AmEx, to encourage adoption of use, and one of those things is customer discounts. I’m guessing the interchange is shit as well for now to get merchants to pick it up, but who can tell. All I know is I saved a few rubles on my fancy pants new tea sets. Ohmigosh let’s play tea!!!!! Who’s in??!?! Now I need a hutch to display my new girly wares!!!!

Naturally Mirms was equally excited and Marc sat out in the lobby until we were done.

We head home and head out to Salobie. I have the lamb thing that Marc had had the first night, and we have khachapuri again. I have to say that both things were delish, and very inexpensive.

We left the restaurant at 10 pm and it was still dusky out. I needed a full night of uninterrupted sleep so popped a nighttime headache pill upon arriving home and zonked out until 11 in the morning as Mirms was leaving for class.

Tuesday

Up. Coffee. Political discussion with Marc. Decide to divest holdings in domestic funds and transition over to emerging markets (if China unloads our Tbills the dollar is fucked). Get some yummy shashlyk (kebab), ukha (fish soup), & tasty cherry juice from Cafe Roma, util. Mayakovskaya. It’s a hole in the wall run by people from the Caucasus (our waitress’ teeth are purply-silver, for crying out loud) and the food is great; the service friendly. Marc can’t remember the word for cherry and when he asks for the drink of the red fruit, and confirms that it’s not cranberry, the waitress smiles and is friendly, rather than looking upon him with disgust and barking chto as is customary by the Russians. While here, DARE by Gorillaz comes on, and, well, you know my relationship with this song.

We’re off to pick up my migration with the all important stamp (because, you know, it takes a few days to turn around the stamping of a slip of paper) and it’s right about now I wonder why all these Russian women can rock the miniskirt so effectively.

1. Russian women got a li’l bit of booty
2. But they are in general more slender than the average American
3. But they’re not so slender that their thighs shouldn’t rub together
4. But — aha! — they are ever so slightly bowlegged! At least above the knees.
5. Also, they, and their male counterparts, walk a little bit duck-like (the opposite of pigeon-toed).

What can I say, I was studying the Russian female physique quite a bit and with much curiosity, as I too recently purchased a daringly short skirt and would like to wear it once the weather gets nice.

Migration card in check, we jump on municipal trolleybus #5, which, unlike commercial bus #22, is not operated by a private company but rather the gov’t. Marc later explained, “Trolleybuses are electric (they’re connected to the ubiquitous wires) whereas buses are diesel. Also, there is a municipal bus #22, it’s just not as nice or frequent as the commercial version.” Muncipal trolleybus #5 is ready to fall apart, it’s terribly rusty, Marc says you can see your breath on it during the winter. All that said, we get to the Hermitage in one piece. I used Miriam’s international student ID (we all look alike …) so we both got in for free.

I’m not a paintings girl, so here’s what we saw, in order of my interest, not in order of the viewing:

1. Russian palace interiors
2. State Rooms
3. Archeology and Siberian artifacts
4. Central Asian artifacts
5. Oriental art and culture
6. Russian art and culture

The most breathtaking view was of the ice floes heading down the river. I imagined myself as a kindly tsarina wearing a ruffly 5.5′ wide dress, overlooking the river and then dashing to the view of the front door to see whose carriage had just arrived for the ball.

Frankly, the Winter Palace just seems kinda big. Yusupov was more my style, especially with that off the hook intimate theatre thing. But the Winter Palace did have a phat library a la Yale.

On our way out, one of the guards who I thought looked American on the way in told Marc and I to enjoy ourselves. I turned around and thanked him; he immediately asked where we were from. New York — I’m from Idaho — Oh, I’m from Indiana; are you here on your mission? — Yes — How long into it are you? — Two years (duh, I know they’re two years …) — I mean, how much more of it do you have to go? — Oh, three months — Congratulations!

It’s weird how I really can spot how a non-Russian looks now. I never used to understand during World History my sophomore year in high school how things like big fat wars in Europe could break out. All white people look alike! But there really are certain looks that many people have; Germans look like … Germans. Russians look like … Russians. Caucasians look like … Caucasians. There isn’t nearly enough interbreeding going on, people! Can’t we all just get our freak on?!?! Maybe these Russian bride services aren’t such a bad idea. Fat lazy white guys in Tennessee need love, too, after all.

We stop by a bookstore in order for me to get a Moscow map; while there I get a handful of propaganda reprint postcards. I see the posters that my little sister Victoria bought while in Moscow a couple of years ago and am delighted by their translations (the posters are in slightly outdated Russian and thus were difficult to translate). We try and get on the 5 but it’s around 6 and fully rush hour. Though our feet hurt and our backs hurt, as we are pushing thirty, we trek on, with a slight pit stop in an English language bookstore. I imagine if I were a single expat in Piter, I’d hang out at this bookstore a lot, if only because other people speaking English would be there, and I would feel like it was not against the law to smile.

I pick up some packing tape to seal up my treasures from Lomonosov (Miriam reports that when the airline girls see my shopping bag, they will treat it with the utmost respect as they will know it’s porcelain; suddenly the benefits of flying a Russian airline are evident), get some lemon cola flavored toothpaste (155r/$5.75!! yikes!), a miniature globe (78r/$3; I imagine my offspring of the future playing with it and asking “What does this mean, mommy?” and suddenly I am sharing with them my life and helping them to become worldly cosmpolitanites who can read Cyrillic and explain to me why there’s 5 hours of sun in February and 5 hours of nonsun in April in a town that was Russia’s attempt to get access to a port for the purposes of trading cuz it’s all about the benjamins …), and an ice cream cone (14r/50c) that is black cherry and superbly delicious. 50 cents, when the Haagen Dazs by Mr. 940P charges $4 a pop! Ay dios mio!

We eat pelmeni with sour cream and dill followed by borscht with sour cream and dill at home for dinner. We talk about peasant food / comfort food. I think about my mom’s cabbage soup and her zucchini casserole. I think about creating more time in my own life to make dinners from scratch at home. I think about the beautiful angles of the sun and how they interplay with various surfaces. I imagine myself lying on my couch in Brooklyn reading a book from my Amazon wish list while playing one of the bootlegs on my stereo and sipping tea in my new girly porcelain as something delicious cooks on my stove and my funds percolate nicely in emerging markets that will be okay even if China does in fact sell all its Tbills. Marc reports that some guy is pissing on the wall overlooked by his second story kitchen window, the same wall that reads in spray paint KURT COBAIN and GOD IS GAY and ICE CUB.

Tomorrow I fly to Moscow with a ticket stub that was accidentally torn off by an airline attendant who misread the Latin script, and was accidentally glued into my journal before I realized that it was my TO Moscow ticket stub. We’ll see what happens, folks. I’m staying either on Sadovaya-Sukharevskaya or Ulitsa-Troitskaya in a studio operated by Moscow Rick for $105 a night. My Piter Rough Guide will officially handed over to dear Alice upon my return to the States (perhaps … at … a tea party in Brooklyn??).

Things I Thought I Wanted To Do In St. Petersburg Until M&M Advised Me:

1. Check out the Peter & Paul Fortress
2. Check out the Russian Museum

Things I Wanted To Do In St. Petersburg But Could Not In Order Of Interest:

1. See Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherezade (wasn’t playing)
2. See the Church of the Transfiguration in Kizhi (too far away; not enough time)
3. Eat at 1913 god
4. Check out Lenin’s Mating Call (under renovation)
5. Eat at a Laima (but I can do that in Moscow)
6. Check out the Rasputin cellar at Yusupov (closed on Sundays)
7. Watch an ice hockey game
8. Check out Palitra (an art gallery, but I got my street art so this was sated)

Things That Anyone Visiting St. Peterburg Must Do (Aside From The Usual)

1. Eat Georgian cuisine, especially at a hole in the wall
2. Have an ice cream cone (you can get one at a grocery store)
3. Visit the Vernissage Souvenir Fair (1, Nab. Kanala Griboedova)
4. Buy bootleg CDs from any of the legitimate music stores
5. Get beaten by dumplings, I mean, birch branches, in a banya
6. Play the “What Time Is It” game by looking at the sunlight
7. Walk through Apraksin dvor
8. Visit the Lomonosov factory store (if you like tea sets …)
9. Pay close attention to the unique fashion, and unique shape, of the women
10. Give pause to everything around you and be thankful for all of your moments

I am so thankful to my gracious hosts for their wonderful company, excellent tour-giving, interesting and stimulating conversation, and all-around good humor. I feel so lucky to have so many interesting people in my life, and while I did wonder for a moment if I have missed out by never having been an expat of sorts in my life (so many people in my life have been! Sandeman, my father, Eric, Bomee, Mr. 940P, Marc, Miriam … countless others …) who knows, my company is a multinational, and my parents may retire in Thailand, and who says I have to spend the rest of my days in the U.S. of A. anyway?

I am looking forward to having a couple of ANP-alone-abroad days, a la London in September ‘05. And I’m wondering to self if I should set up the evite for the tea party now, or if I should confer with a few of my girlees to see what would work best for their schedules… Wait! I think. Evite has that functionality!

Here’s hoping I can board the plane tomorrow with my glue-sticked ticket stubby stub …

Oh, and, the answer is … six.

This post edited on 6/3/2006 to include pictures.

I’ve decided to make my posts on Russia a tad more detailed than my posts about Mexico City and/or Berlin/Amsterdam/London, since my girl Alice is headed here with her law school friends in June.  Stuff in bold I recommend checking out. 

Saturday

First things first, we register my Visa for 550 rubles ($20) with a quasi-legal Visa registration agency (as long as you’ve got the right stamp…).  Then we’re off to TEPEMOK (Teremok) for a fast food breakfast, which consists of mushroom & cream bliny and kvas, a drink of fermented rye that is vaguely alcoholic, looks like a purply non-carbonated cola drink, and gives me a perfectly light buzz (to M&M’s collective amusement).  80r/$3 and I want another bliny before I leave town. 

We walk down Nevskiy prospekt and when the sun peeks out from the clouds it’s riotously bright.  It should be said that the sun comes up before six and sets after ten.  Marc was bemoaning the five hours of sun per day he had to endure in February and for someone who is battling jetlag, the angle of the sun and its general constancy is additionally bewildering. 

Something else to note is that over the course of the day I pick up on the fact that I’m not being regarded with ignorant curiosity per Indiana circa 1982, but rather xenophobic judgment.  I’ve done a fair amount of travelling in the past year and I must say, Piter is the first place in a long time where I have understood myself to be considered deeply unattractive by the locals at best, a potential victim of a racially motivated hate crime at worst.  I do not feel particularly safe in this city and it is unnerving.  Although I am certainly enjoying myself and the time I am spending with M&M, I am slightly anxious to get back home.  I am not interested in dying.

Nevskiy prospekt’s scale is reminiscent of Vegas.  "Russian-sized" is apparently a proud expression here, and it’s apparent in the people (who are rather tall in general), the buses (which seem dangerously tall), the scale of the buildings and the width of the streets, the beers, and the images of cucumbers which adorn many an advertisement.  We hang a right and make our way to the Church of the Saviour on the Blood, begun in 1882 by Alexander III to commemorate the spot where his father (Alexander II) was slain.  The kvas is saying hello at this point so I pay 10r/40c to enjoy the use of a well-maintained port a potty.  (On that note, I can’t wait to get home and upload all the pics I’ve been snapping.)  We make our way around the beautiful building with onion dome action and over to the Vernissage Souvenir Fair (1, Nab. Kanala Griboedova), where Marc knew there to be a camera guy.  I was hoping to get 940P an old-school Russian or Soviet super8 movie camera to add to his collection, but the guy was only selling a few in bad condition for minimum 11000r/$400. I’m also on a quest for non-cheesy street art (see also:  Mexico City, blue cat painting) and amidst the many vendors here find great photographs by photographer Valentin Simonkov.  It is, for me, the ultimate find:  unique non sucky street art by a photographer with a strong voice whose subject is St. Petersburg.  I bargain the woman who is selling on his behalf down to 1500r/$56.  I figure if I can give a cabbie this kinda loot I can spare it for six photographs (one or two of which would have cost this much in Union Square).  It’s also at the Vernissage that I pick up a lovely music box to match my room for 840r/$31.

(I buy it as I remember the music box my Aunt Mary gave to my father.  I never knew her, she was gone before I was here, but I remember as a child spending hours gazing at this music box, playing its music, looking at the little girl on the bench with her dog under the tree.  When I was back in Indiana in March (oops, need to blog about that) I saw the music box again and played it and was transported back to childhood.  I remembered, standing in front of the vendor’s stall, that I had wanted to start getting non-cheesy music boxes.  Perhaps he thinks it was his fluency in English or powers of bargaining that encouraged me to buy the box from him rather than the six other vendors hawking the same thing, when in fact it was simply the narcotic power of memory.)

Marc is, of course, too good for a port a potty, so we head into a Kafe Haooz (Coffee House — I wish I could type it in Cyrillic) and I spend 60r/$2.25 on a caramel latte.  We read the St. Petersburg Times and learn about an Indian med student getting stabbed in the neck twice by skinheads on Friday night at 8 p.m., the 100 Russian billionaires who live primarily in Moscow, the generally backwards approach to science taken by many Russians (sitting on cold steps will make you infertile, HIV prevention made difficult by the prevailing though that only abstinence should be taught, other provincial attitudes too numerous to list) … M&M inform me that it is indeed a second world country, although apparently during the work of one Fulbright they were instructed to change "developing" (an appellation given by WHO) to "transitional".  The level of conformist thought here as reported by Mirms is astounding; initiative at every step is squashed (’You are just a student, who do you think you are trying to do so much?  There are many people above you, you know!), anything put into writing is scrutinized a billion times (and I think getting signoff on some invoices from my CFO is bad …), and if you cite a source whose politics don’t jive with the prevailing groupthink …  Amazing.

We leave the beady eyes of Kafe Haooz and make our way back to Nevskiy prospekt.  I snap a pic of M&M on the Politseyskiy most over the River Moyka, the view from which reminds me of Venice (this is only possible because of the enormity of the buildings here; the scale ends up working out okay).  We where we hang a right at Bolshaya Morskaya ulitsa in order to walk underneath the triple arches of the General Staff building.  This truly is the only way to approach Dvortsovaya ploshchad (Palace Square), its Alexander Column (Aleksandrovskaya kolonna) and the Winter Palace (Zimniy dvorets)/ Hermitage (Ermitazh).  I promise this shall all become abundantly clear once I upload my photographs.

After having my heart broken by the sight of a bear cub in a muzzle and on a leash, we walk along the Neva River (Bolshaya Neva), check out the Bronze Horseman (where, predictably, newlyweds and their trashily attired wedding guests are getting their photographs taken), and walk through Alexander Garden in an attempt to make it to the promenade atop St. Isaac’s Cathedral.  I note the prevalence of power lines that make it impossible to get in a good shot, and Marc notes the fact that it’s 5:30 and the promenade closes at 5.  Drat.

No matter, we’re hungry.  M&M indulge my obsession with courtyard shots and I begin to see some Berlin / Amsterdam elements of Piter as well.  It’s got a rundown industrial patina about it that echoes Berlin, and some of the canal views are more Amsterdam than Venice.  So St. Petersburg = Las Vegas + Berlin + Amsterdam + Venice.  We try to eat at the Soviet kitsch place Lenin’s Mating Call but alas, it’s closed for renovations.  Instead, we hit Kalikiya for Armenian food, where I get a beer, chicken liver with garlic sauce and pineapple (sounds weird; tastes weird but good), adzharski (khachapuri (cheesy bread) with a sunny side up egg in the middle), and lomadzho (kind of like a quesadilla except with lamb) for 350r/$13. 

We hit the subway whose etiquette reminds me of NYC (pushing and body odors the norm).  It’s maintained better but the escalators are insanely long; since Piter is essentially a bog it’s required that the subways are a lot deeper in the ground.  A couple of teenage girls can’t stop staring at me, an affliction only heightened once they hear us speaking English.  I’m grateful to get back to their place and take a disco nap.

Saturday night we hit the Russian Orthodox Easter Service.  It goes on for six hours and we were aiming to arrive by 11:30p.  En route we pass the place where an antifa student was murdered in the afternoon / early evening by skinheads.  Once we arrive at Alexander Nevsky Monastery, it becomes apparent that it’s the place to be.  Miriam & I cover our heads in scarves and the place is so packed that we’re outside watching a guy in the belltower go nuts ringing that bell.  Naturally teenagers have forgotten to turn off their ringers and the legit worshippers are singing along (loosely translated, call and response of ‘Christ is risen, Verily he is risen.’).  There are candles and we eventually make our way inside.  Frankly it’s all rather moving, I can understand why religion is so powerful, it allows people a chance to feel connected to one another and something larger than themselves, helps fuel the dream that life is everlasting, that Christ has risen, that our souls are immortal.  Who doesn’t want to think they’ll get to be around forever in some shape or form?

In the middle of my rapture (the orthodox choral music is off the hook), a drunk guy bumps into me rather aggressively, says something, and bumps into me again.  I’m incredibly frightened, part of me is certain he is saying You are brown and I want to stab you in the throat, while Marc shakes his head and tells me that the guy excused himself for bumping into me only to bump into me again.

On the way home, I stop into the Russian version of Store 24 and get some yogurt drink for breakfast as well as two packages of Little Debbie type things.  My stomach hasn’t adjusted to the time here and I’m getting hungry at random times (I’m starved right now, for example).  98r/$4. 

To celebrate easter, M&M make some dumpling things (they remind me of something you’d buy at Trader Joes) and we drink a lot of vodka.  By 3 a.m. I am certifiably shitfaced and I sleep like a baby until I wake up with a start at 7 a.m.  Fucking jetlag.

Sunday

I don’t get up (the second time) until 1 p.m., at which point we catch bus #22 (12r/45c) down Nevskiy to Yusupov Palace.  Miriam breaks down the Odors of St. Petersburg for me:

1. Alcohol
2. Body odor
   1. I don’t wear deodorant v.
   2. I haven’t bathed in four days
3. Unwashed clothes (they remind her of the bums she’s dealt with at the hospital during med school @ UPenn; only really noticeable in enclosed places … like buses)

The most common odors are alcohol (check) and ‘I don’t wear deodorant’ (check).  Men, in general, are more likely to stink than women.  Naturally my mind wanders to good variations of manstink…

Yusupov Palace (400r/$15) is pretty cool.  It’s ridiculously opulent and they’ve got an English audio guide that explains everything.  You can also rent it out for a killer party for $10K.  Rasputin was murdered in the basement but I don’t feel like shelling out the extra loot for that special tour, which is just fine since they don’t give the tours on Sunday.  We spent about an hour there and then headed to Usupoff (Moyka Embankment, 90), a souvenir shop overstaffed by hipster university students who are unfailingly polite (they actually smile!  they give us free tea!) and speak English incredibly well.  I tell them that in NYC the word for cool kids such as themselves is hipster.  I imagine the word getting adopted in Piter like wildfire, a mass hipster uprising, when most likely they think I am just an American asshole because of course they know they’re cool as shit.  They’re charging a ton for music boxes (ha!) but I pick up something for mom and something that matches my room.  Damage:  1003r/$37.  M&M get some prints because they’re classy like that.

Next stop:  The Idiot (82 Moyka Emb.), a basement restaurant devoted to Dostoevsky.  Randomly, it’s primarily vegetarian.  For 500r/$19 I get some tasty borscht, a drink that’s V8 and sour cream (would have been good if it wasn’t HALF sour cream … I was thinking a dollop when I ordered it), bliny with sour cream & honey, and a gratis shot of vodka. 

Marc hails one of the ubiquitous "My design says 1970 but I was probably made in the late 80s" cars for a quasi-legal cab ride back home.  He reports that the guy, who was from the Caucases, tried to get 150r/$6 but Marc corrected him and let him know that 100r/$4 was normal.  Not bad as the average pensioner makes about 300r/$11 a month.  We get home, Fulbrighters Margaret & Jenna arrive for some drinking of the national drink of Estonia (tasty!), and we head over to the banya.

The banya!!  Marc got us a deluxe 8pm reservation in advance at Yamskie bani (ul. Dostoevskovo 9, ph (812) 312 5836, Vladimirskaya metro) The last time I went to a spa and got to enjoy cold dip + sauna, it cost me $150 and I had to endure a tube shoved up my ass (I don’t want to talk about it).  For 330r/$12.25 apiece, six of us rent out a private area with a pool table, cold dip, and amazing sauna for two hours.  To maintain authenticity, we did it Russian and were buck naked.  (Just like college!)  We also beat each other with leafy birch branches (whose Russian word is very close to the word for dumplings, much to the confusion of the staff from whom Marc requested six sheets and three dumplings) which was incredibly fun.  Sounds crazy, but isn’t at all.  The combination of the heat and the cool plunge and the beatings really get the blood flowing.  After several rounds of this, I was wiped.  That Soviet champagne couldn’t have tasted any better.

My only regret is not having brought my camera.  After all, our private room had a pole.  (Insert frowny face!)

I was starved after this so we headed to a terrible yet typical Russian joint called Stars Only.  A university student from Nigeria was forced to endure the humiliation of wearing some red military type outfit and stand out front to attract attention to himself and bring in patrons.  Maybe I read too much into things but it smacked of blackface and it hurt my feelings on his behalf.  Akva minerale, two pieces of sushi, and a delicious hash brown potato pancake thing with bacon inside (dranniki), 350r/$13.

We left the restaurant just before midnight.  It was finally dark out.  I was sure I’d sleep like a baby; I felt like I’d had a good hard workout thanks to the banya, but sure enough, here I am, at 5 a.m., wide awake, typing all this in a perhaps attempt to remind myself that I exist. 

Evidence!

This post modified on 5/23/2006 to include a link to Great Jones Spa, and on 5/30/2006 - 6/2/2006 to include pictures and remove an embarrassing reference to a love affair that ended abruptly, boo hoo.

I love taking mass transportation to JFK, in true “multi-modal transport day”, in the words of the Bom-ster. You’re in NYC, yes, but it feels vaguely foreign. I’m about to take an international flight, I think, while listening to the odd bell noises of the automated thing on tracks.

My flight was at 6:40 p.m., so per the advice of core performance guru Mark V., I set my watch immediately to St. Petersburg time and popped some nighttime headache medicine (that part I ad-libbed). Unfortunately the pills hit me sooner than I anticipated, with my apologies to the vendor with whom I left a very rambling status update voice mail (oops). Aeroflot had great leg room, but perhaps that was just because I got the homey hookup from the guy at JFK, who noticed that I lived two blocks away from him (Clinton Hill represent!) and put me into an exit row, next to the lovely Svetlana, a doll in her sixties or seventies who assumed I spoke Russian at first. How cute! Ya ne ponimayu!

Nine and half hours and two tasty meals later, I touch down in Moscow.

Sheremetevo Terminal 2 was mid sixties and foggy, flanked by birch trees and industry, and the bitch about flying to Moscow is that you have to deboard your plane, go through passport control, get your luggage, get some rubles, haggle with taxi drivers, and take a 5 km taxi ride to Terminal 1 for your connecting flight to Piter. Sweet. Now, Mirms had warned me to know my ceiling for taxi prices, and I had it all in my head:

1. Terminal odin. Skolko stoit?
2. Hand taxi driver my calculator (free glom from Citi!) so he can punch in the numbers.
3. Anything north of 1400 (around $50), reply with nyet and punch in 1400.

Ah, the best laid plans! I’m so focused on making sure I catch my plane (1h 45m after my arrival), that I use an outdated term for the number one (oh-ni) which confuses all of the taxi drivers, get directed to the one dude that speaks English (at which point I have now signalled to all that I should be raped on pricing), and when he says “one thousand” I begin to nod (yes! <1400!) and hear myself saying da. He is wheeling my pink luggage to the taxi when it registers that “one thousand” was followed by “five hundred”. Fuck! 1500>1400!

No matter. Ten to fifteen minutes of sitting in an Eastern European car driven by a guy with a mullet drinking Coke and yakking on his cell while he navigates a two lane thoroughfare flanked on both sides by mud as the rain pours down, I make it to Terminal One and am ready to be bewildered by the check in process to head to Piter (hint: you get checked by security before checking in, and no one smiles and they could give two shits about you and your god damned use of spasiba). I finally figure out that the lady with a stern girl mullet yelling from a podium is announcing that my flight is ready to board. I’m forced to turn my attention away from the sketchy Russian dudes in bad suits smoking heavily and staring curiously at me. I imagine I will be murdered in some ethnic cleansing celebration of Hitler’s birthday, or worse, sold into sex slavery in Turkey or Sweden. Dammit, why did I have to watch Head On and Lilya 4-Ever!?!

The puddle jumper puts my knees (and infectious electro-classical-trance-dance-pop) in my ears and the guy next to me has a serious armpit situation. The air reeks of diesel and other assorted industrial fluids; I imagine Chernobyl juice seeping into my being and cover my eyes with my sleep mask to catch some zs for the 90 minute flight. When I arrive, I peep some Central Asian dudes at the baggage claim that kind of look like me, with vaguely Asian eyes and definitely nonwhite skin. The racially motivated murder idea pops back into my brain, fuelled by an article I read in the Moscow times about a 19 year old student getting stabbed by skinheads for distributing antifa(scist) flyers. Sweet.

While waiting for Marc n Mirms to pick me up (total JFK to LED time: 16 hours), a woman from the provinces engages me in a poor attempt at communication. “What we have heeeeya, is a failure ….”

Her: Something something

Me: (Looking regretful) Ya ne ponimayu po-Russki.

Her: Something something. She pauses, looks down at her hands, and then looks at me while a torrent of Russian words comes flying out of her mouth. I smile, nod, hear universityetye (aha!).

Me: Try to communicate that my friends are also at university in St. Petersburg and are en route to pick me up. I use a combination of hand motions, facial expressions, two words in Russian, and some English. She understands none of it.

Her: Something something. I look confused, so when she says, “Los Angeles” I figure it out.

Me: Ah! New York!

Her: Her eyes widen, she grins widely.

I hear a noise across the way, we look up. There’s a guy her age with a cell phone and a piece of luggage. She looks at me, points to him, says the word boyfriend in English, and gives a dismissive hand wave while rolling her eyes and getting up. I think of the statistic that says that 70% of Russian women report getting beaten by their husbands within the past month. I think of that crazy night in NYC where one crazy editor of a magazine reported that all women want from a man is to be respected and to not be beaten. I wonder where the hell Marc & Miriam are.

—

They live off the Ploshchad Vosstaniya stop near Nevskiy Prospekt, which is like, the hotness. They haggle for a cab and Marc is perturbed that he can only get the guy with the mullet down to a thousand (for a forty minute cab ride, I think wistfully). After I settle briefly into their beautiful apartment

(Miriam’s here on a Fulbright and Marc is here on a Boren fellowship, a language-acquisition fellowship from the federal government)

and beautiful in my mind equals Pergo, high ceilings, Ikea furniture, and all new finishings, they toast me on my empty stomach (ANP gets half a shot while Marc n Mirms get two) and Mirms gives me the rundown:

1. Smiling without a reason is for idiots (oops). Brusqueness in public transactions is the norm.
2. No laughing loudly (shit!)
3. Expect to see fistfights and drunken men (done)
4. Try not to speak English in public (oops)
5. When the police (gray uniforms) give you trouble and ask you for dokumentiy (passport and papers), reply only in English and look confused. Ask loudly in English if you should call the U.S. consulate. Eventually they will get bored and leave you alone. Men get picked on more than women, so I shouldn’t have to worry too much about this. But you should always have your passport and papers on you (oops).
6. Don’t put your ass in someone’s face when passing in front of them (for example, in a theatre).
7. Be prepared to check your bags in a locker in stores, and if you want a plastic bag once done shopping, you’ll have to let them know you want to buy it. And by the way, expect the cashiers to yell at you a lot.
8. Avoid gypsies (brightly colored clothing, generally dirty and dark-skinned, gold jewelry) who have been known to cut the pants right off a certain U.S. Senator looking for a photo opp, and avoid skinheads (or dudes with long hair wearing all black). Again, both of these types tend to pick on men more, and the skinheads are more of a problem in provincial Piter than cosmopolitan Moscow. If skinheads do bother you, run inside of a store. Oh, and try not to be so dark. (Shit! Should have reconsidered all that time enjoying the outdoors last weekend!) Mirms is Filipina and hasn’t had a problem at all being here, so as long as I look alive I should be ok.

We meet up with another Fulbrighter for some excellent Georgian cuisine at Salobie, Ul. Nekrasova 28 between Ul. Mayakovskaya & Ul. Vostaniya, (812) 275-3518 (which I am currently salivating over just thinking about), some odd Georgian wine, air hanging heavily with cigarette smoke, and conversation heavily skewed towards Those Crazy Times In College. Among the many collegiate memories shared, certain themes became evident: destruction of couches (Miguel and fire; Ozzy and swords purchased from shop-at-home television; Gordy and urine after a long night of 40s), destruction of self (a classmate’s vivid memory of watching, while innocently waiting for Ed the drug dealer to roll through the dorm, a Philip Seymour Hoffman lookalike’s face in a moment of ‘oh, yes, my ass is getting fucked’ ecstasy (just before PSH vomited into a blue recycling bin) during an orgy (of people with whom one does not want to imagine in sexual situations); the guy with the crazy green plaid pants who had the heroin problem freshman year), and destruction of societal expectations about how Yalies are supposed to behave (in addition to the above, naked parties and/or bridge-jumping, substance abuse and co-ed bathrooms; see also: Joe Torres, mere existence of).

Ah, good times. I think Ryan the Fulbright slash historian, who attended a Seventh Day Adventist college, may now be scarred for life.

I got home and although it was a bit after 10 p.m., it was still light out (think 7 p.m. NYC). Although I passed out easily, I woke up with a start around 3 a.m., and here I am, at Marc’s laptop in the living room (wondering why the internet connection is faster than in Brooklyn) overlooking Ulitsa Zhukovskoyo between Ulitsa Mayakovskovo and Ulitsa Vosstaniya, typing the first things that come into my head about Russia.

Post modified on 5/29/2006 to include corrections courtesy Marc, as well as inclusion of photographs.

ONE woman standing

If you’re interested in transporting yourself from the orb of your world to the orb of another, I recommend you check out a couple of the one woman shows that are being presented as part of the Emerging Artists Theatre’s ONE woman standing, curated by Stacy Mayer.

Friday, April 21st
7:00 pm
Dad & Me (Heather Aldridge); Damaged Dancers (Marjorie Suvalle). Damaged Dancers is directed by Matt Hoverman. I’ve seen neither but I think the world of Matt.

Saturday, April 22nd
9:00 pm
My Buddy and Me (Maggie Jeary). I saw her workshop of this after she took Matt’s class and it was one of the best that night. Very funny, touching, and Maggie has an endearing quality about her that makes you want to scoop her up and give her a big hug. Highly recommend.
The Sudden Death of Everyone (Catherine Rogers). Catherine was in Matt’s class with me and she has a splendid graceful quality about her and truly brings the myriad characters in her piece to life. She explores the sudden death of everyone in her life, from her brother to her best friend and beyond.

311 W 43rd St., 5th Floor. $10 suggested donation.

Open Studios

Hunter MFA program open studios are Friday April 28th. Studios are on Dyer and 42nd, I think. No time to google it but poke around, you should be able to find something.

Supply & Demand

So I’m sitting in therapy talking about how uncomfortable it was to receive a li’l award at work. It was nothing big, just an interdepartmental shout-out with a mass produced certificate. But it was a surprise, and there were noisemakers, and I walked into the conference room and everyone is staring at me and making a fuss and being supportive. It was difficult for me to receive that (don’t look at me! I’m hideous!) and I cried a little and am still touched by it, a few days later. It was nice. And anxiety-producing.

I am touched to be recognized, publicly, for my contributions.

And then I’ve got this love interest thing which is going really well (lest I jinx it by even daring to put such utterances into writing)! My brain definitely takes turns into bad places but I’m recognizing what I’m up to and I’m stopping it and I’m letting myself enjoy the moments I can share with this person. And it’s really nice! And he’s really great! And I’m enjoying myself! I’m not pushing fast forward, I’m not hungry for validation, and I’m not using anyone to fill some hole inside me. (Insert double entendre here.)

And it’s jarring, it causes a bit of anxiety for me, and when my therapist asked me the rhetorical question of why I described the events in my life as of late as “highly uncomfortable”, I burst into tears and replied, “I’m afraid it’s all going to go away and I don’t want it to get taken away from me.”

Indeed.

And it will.

The fact of the matter is that it will all go away and it will all get taken away from me. Because that’s the nature of the human experience in this universe. It is finite.

But therein lies the rub. The finitude of our experiences here, that’s what makes it so damned precious. We only get a little. We don’t get forever. We may, like the character in Blade Runner, “want more life, fucker!”, we may fret about our experiences and memories getting lost “like tears in rain”, but the very fact that our time here is fleeting makes it all the more special.

Supply and demand.

We don’t last forever. My friends Ted H——, Josh B——, & Sean S—— didn’t last. My friends Kevin F—, Scott S———, and Nate M—– took their own lives. So did my math teacher / basketball coach Mr. R——. My cousin died testing out fighter jets. Two aunts died from cancer. It’s too brief, it hurts, I want more, don’t go. Just stay where you are. Let me enjoy you for a little longer.

It doesn’t work that way.

Everyone’s afraid of their own life
If you could be anything you want
I bet you’d be disappointed, am I right? …

—–Modest Mouse, Lives, with thanks to ALO for the reference

I have to remember that I can’t avoid death by not living, and really being alive means really risking loss and letting that which is precious in life affect me deeply, no matter how much it will hurt when it ends, whenever that might be. I cannot be afraid to feel, I must work through the existential dread and anxiety inherent in life, I want to live my life bold and bright and brimming with benevolent brisance. I know I can’t get more life, fucker, but only I can let myself get more out of my life.

I’m all in. Anything less than that shortchanges me, and since I only get a supply of one in the inventory of life, I’m going to demand the most out of it.

—

I’m off to Russia in a few hours. When I’m back, I’m pulling a posse in NYC together for some dimsum.

Dasvedanya!

My thoughts are with you.

Some people don’t have a good relationship with loneliness.
—–Gabriela Velazquez Rebollo, reflecting on why some people have an adverse reaction to her paintings, one of which I bought and proudly installed in my bedroom. Meow!

The weather in NYC this weekend was as close to Mexico City’s weather as it’s gotten all year. Yesterday it was warm enough for me to walk around in a camisole (and pants, thank you), and today I wore a sundress for brunch and shorts for my football-throwing lesson in Prospect Park (I am lovin’ me some Prospect Park). (I want to clarify for my concerned friends that it was Mr. Psycho that got his stuff back on Friday, not Mr. Brooklyn.)

I figure since I’m about to take another international trip it’s time to put down some final thoughts on Mexico City.

First, I was visiting my friend Bomee. Bomee and I worked together at Blink.com, RIP, and was the first other really tall Asian grrl I got to know. I remember finding out she was a size four and not being able to understand the physics of that (she’s taller than I am). I was worried at first about visiting her, ANP inner monologue sounding something like

Do I know this person well enough?
Does she really want me to impose on her like this?
Am I going to be a big nuisance?
Am I going to be entertaining enough for her?

but mostly I thought

This is gonna be some fucking cool shit and we’re gonna have a kick-ass time.

And guess what? Visiting Bomee, and Mexico City, was some fucking cool shit and we had (IMHO) a kick-ass time (Jump to Bomee-authored details from here.) It’s funny how those few days take on a different temporal quality in my brain (as all non-work time tends to do), but if I think about it I can recall the lighting and the scent of the bedroom I stayed in

(it smelled like the dorm room in Lanman-Wright I stayed in post-crew to work reunions in ‘97 — in other words, it smelled like the condom my buddy used with his girlfriend and then hid under a bunch of stuff in recycling bins, leaving me to wonder what the hell that smell was … you know who you are, and yes, I am imposing myself upon you in September again)

and the feel of the air in my throat as I worked my way out of the airport (”What smell?” Bomee asks upon greeting me), and the mood of the lazy bus that took us to Teotihuacan with the sunlight held at bay by thick blue polyester curtains. (What was up with the cops coming in and patting down all the ethnic Mexicans?)

I had a wonderful time, and I’m so thankful to Bomee for letting me stay with her, playing lovely tourguidess, and letting us open up to one another. (xoxo!)

I wrote in my journal the night I arrived (2/16) that Mexico City reminded me of Italy and Berlin and Port Chester. All true. There are concrete block-y Cartesian coordinate buildings and small cars and at times a feeling in the air that was very stretch-of-road-between-Vicenza-and-Verona-that-was-lined-with-Italian-strip-mall-things. There was an organically run-down yet not-in-an-unloved-way patina to the surroundings that reminded me of Berlin. And anyone who has ever been on Main Street in Port Chester, my home for five years… well, you know what I’m sayin’.

By my second day there, I’d gotten used to my sore throat and eyes, but my earwax was dirty and damned if I didn’t feel the need to pick my nose like ten times as much as usual.

Okay, you want to know something funny? I wrote the paragraph above comparing M. City to Italy and Berlin and P.C. before reading the last page of my journal that I wrote while there. It’s a corny-corn love letter to the City, but it’s interesting how vividly the imagery drew itself onto my brain. I embarrass myself with:

O! Ciudad de Mexico. You speak to me, with your paseros y Suburbia y Vips y Sanborns. You smile, your languid particulate-laden air blankets your Cartesian coordinates of cinder block construction. The things that were said about you. They were not true. You are fun & relaxed and you age graceful & confident. Some people do not have a good relationship with loneliness. Not you, my Ciudad de Mexico. You wear it tall & proud. It suits you.

Flights are $295 from JFK to Mexico City. Go.

• Bomee’s photo of Coyoacan market 
• Bomee’s photo of me, Gabriela, and my blue cat painting
• Bomee’s photo of me rubbing my belly in glee re: blue cat
• My pictures of Mexico City
• What to do in Mexico City (read the comments)

I love you, Bomee. You’re such a beautiful person. Intriguing, intelligent, sarcastic, and squishy. You have such a good heart, and I am happy that you are my friend.

My brain is bleeding, but I’ve just finished turbotaxing — hooray!

The Anittah Patrick report

• My dues for Club USA membership come to $1,100/month
• Club NY State membership dues: $390/month
• Club NYC membership dues: $220/month

Membership benefits include a stable financial system, air quality that’s better than Mexico City, and a buncha other stuff. But I’ve never looked at my taxes this way, and I’ve gotta say … man, that’s a lotta taxes.

Anittah Patrick’s Tax Tips
Alright, I’m no frosted-hair Suze Orman, but since 100% of the people I know (correctly) confirm that I am rather, ahem, bossy, here’s what I do to milk the prostate, I mean, finagle the lowest membership dues possible out of my various Clubs.

• Itemize deductions. If you work from home twice a month, then 10% of your home office is eligible for a deduction. And you prorate the cost of your overall household expenses, like the jacked up cost of Keyspan, into the square footage of your desk. Or, if you have a three bedroom apartment, you just pretend that extra bedroom is a dedicated home office *cough* *cough*. It helps if you anally have an .xls that records every utility expenditure.
• Depending on your industry, deduct your cell and your cable bill. Have someone pay you $5 to model for them and suddenly you can deduct every $500 haircut and every ill-advised $700 splurge at Zappos.com. I’m not kidding.
• Get Lasik and get a therapist. If you’re in NYC, where the cost of therapy is 2-5x the allowable maximum for most health insurance providers, you’ll blow through the 7.5% health cost in no time. (If you’re getting Lasik, go to the dude at 10 Downing. Hell, if you’re getting therapy, go to the dude at 10 Downing too.)
• It’s super helpful to buy everything on credit cards. I’m not just saying that because I hawk credit cards. I’d advise this well before I started pushin’ the plastic. It’s all about the paper trail. Get an AmEx or a Citi Professional Card and you’ll get the helpful annual summary of charges, which helps you easily sum up all those meals you’re buying which you can …
• Deduct every dinner you have out with friends who may offer you a job in the future. This is where the Thin Upper Crust effect is super beneficial. My friends include former and current coworkers and probably future employers. So long as one iota of tangentially industry related blah blah is mentioned at a meal, I say that’s good enough to count as a potential Job Search deduction. Who knows when you’ll follow up on that lead? You never know. And yes, I consider, “So what do you do?” a tangentially industry related blah blah. Deduct!

Even though I gotta pony up loot for NY State thanks to Club NYC, with Club USA I’m still coming out ahead. Now I can finally buy a big juicy photograph by my friend Ms. Katherine Newbegin!

What kinds of tax tips do you have? And how should I prepare the red meat in my fridge for my dinner tonight?

Please note that as of July 31, 2008, this post has relocated:  taxes as membership dues.

Hwa-Shih’s job has just been filled, so please disregard earlier post.

I’m reading more on the Yale Taliban issue, but I don’t actually have a real opinion, I am just pretending I do.

Same goes for the Ratner thing. How do you think I should feel about the Ratner thing?

And also, I’m woefully underpaid. Are you? Peep this to find out.

I’m on a plane to Russia in a week. Which reminds me. I gotta blog about Mexico City.

Finally, does anyone know where to locate Lee Frank, comedy coach? Allegedly I got the spunk, I got the timing, I got enough material — I just need to hone and refine. Kinda like my writing. Kinda like my corporate career (choose your battles, Patrick!).

Oh, and, cupcakes from Billy’s Bake Shop. The frosting? A little bit on the sweet side. But thanks for thinking of us, sales team of potential future vendor.

I’m tired. I need new orthotics. My name is Wendy Whiner.

It’s so hard
To say goodbye
To yesterday

Given that my back is fairly healed (first workout in six weeks today – woo hoo!), and that my coworker Jia’s going-away party is tomorrow night, I thought it might be time to finally wrap up the details on my (former, sniffle) coworker Hwa-Shih’s goodbye ceremonies.

Rollerskating at the Roxy invitation
Rollerskating at the Roxy recap
My pics from Bye Bye Bowling and pre-Roxy dinner
Rachel’s farewell movie for Hwa-Shih
Keating’s rollerskating pics
Rachel’s Roxy pics

This post edited on 5/23/2006 to include a link to Rachel’s pictures and delete the now-filled backfill job description.

I wanna write real good. If you weren’t aware, someday I would like to grow up and become a writer. My blogventures give me a chance to quickly toss some ideas into the 0101100 land for future reworking, and said re-working will be that much more effective if you have ideas on what you like less and what you like more about my writing. I promise I will not hit you with the softball bat in the trunk of my car.

If you like something about my writing, what is it?
How can I make it better?
Do you know of any good classes in the City that will offer some structure in my attempts to become David Jonathan Sedaris Ames?

(Thank you to YOU KNOW WHO for helping me see some opportunities in my writing!)

On a related note, the class I took to help me create my one-woman show is about to start up again. I highly, highly recommend this class for anyone who finds it vaguely interesting. I went in with zero performance experience and having not written much in about nine years; I came out of it with an important breakthrough in my personal life and a writing habit that I can’t seem to kick (sorry, Mr. Kovarsky, for the daily ANP HAS UPDATED HER BLOG emails, hee hee).

Matt the instructor is amazing. Tell him ANP sent you.

CREATE YOUR OWN SOLO SHOW!! with Matt Hoverman
An 8-week workshop culminating in a public performance of your 10-minute solo show!

Hi all!

My next LEVEL ONE Class STARTS SOON!
(And finishes just in time for you to take the summer off!)

Level One: Meets weekly 6-9pm on Thursdays, starting Thursday, April 13th!

(The original 8-week workshop for folks who haven’t taken a class with me before!)
$500

To register for this class, e-mail or call.
Half of the class fee is due as a deposit to reserve your space; the rest of the fee is due on the first class.

Best,

Matt Hoverman
mhoverman@earthlink.net

INFO ON CLASSES FOLLOWS:
CREATE YOUR OWN ONE-PERSON SHOW IN A SUPPORTIVE, FREEING & FUN ATMOSPHERE!

Learn the fundamentals of storytelling!
Develop crisp character monologues!
Explore the art of the rant!
Increase confidence in your own voice!
Find focus for or flesh out an existing project!
Create a showcase for your talents!

TELL YOUR STORY!

How it works:
Over the course of eight weeks, you will produce an abundance of short pieces in a variety of solo show forms through improvisation, in-class writing exercises and take-home assignments. You will then develop one of these “nuggets” into a 10-15 minute polished solo show and perform it with your class in a theatre space before an audience of invited friends! (Small class size (maximum: 5 per class) insures that you get to work every class and get lots of personal attention.)

Do I need to have an idea already?
No! The class will spur your imagination
Is it okay if I already have one?
Yes! You will get tailored guidance to fulfill your vision of your piece.
Am I too experienced?/Not experienced enough?
This workshop is appropriate for actors & writers of all levels – or anyone with a passionate desire to transform the details of your life, attitudes and beliefs into a hilarious, moving theatre piece!

Who is Matt Hoverman?
Matt Hoverman is a Drama Desk-nominated playwright (THE AUDIENCE), working actor (Yale Rep, La Jolla Playhouse, The Acting Company, Late Night w/Conan O’Brien, voices for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Pokemon, Yu-Gi-Oh!, Sonic X and more) and teacher who has coached/directed dozens of solo artists. Past workshop students have gone on to perform their solo shows to great critical and audience acclaim in such venues as: The New York International Fringe Festival, The Midtown International Festival, HBO, Estrogenius Sola Voce Festival, manhattantheatresource, Mo Pitkins, Lake George Theatre Lab, NY Solo Play Lab, The People’s Improv Theatre (PIT)… etc. He has taught this 8-week workshop over 25 times.

Testimonials from past students:
“Matt enabled me to take something vitally personal that was unsettled and incomplete, and give it the form it deserved.” Craig D.
“I am so grateful to have such a wonderful teacher, rock, anchor by my side.” Cynthia S.
“Since I took Matt’s class, doors have opened for me. I’m being produced all over the city!” Christine F.
“The day after my final showing, I was asked to improvise a story in a commercial audition. They told me I was the best person all day – I booked it!” Katie A.

RESERVE YOUR SPACE NOW – CLASS SIZE IS LIMITED!
(Also available for Private Coaching.)

EVERYONE HAS A STORY TO TELL -
I’LL HELP YOU TELL YOURS IN A WAY THAT IS BEAUTIFULLY AND UNIQUELY YOU.