The host family is a strange beast. Occupying the awkward space between bed and breakfast and mom and dad life in a homestay is, to say the very least, never boring. To say the very most, I'll begin with the following:
My homestay mom and dad are named Lena and Andrei. They have a daughter, about my age, named Nastya. The Trofimovich family lives in a three-room, sixth-floor apartment in an upscale neighboorhood near the center of Saint Petersburg. In fact, compared to the soviet-style apartments that line the outskirts of the city, it is probably one of the more desireble dwellings in the area. To give some background, I am not the only study abroad student staying in this particular homestay. A friend from class, Danny Sugar, is my fellow american-in-crime.
Danny eating breakfast in the kitchen (note the lack of сырок, we finally told our host family our true feelings):
We met Lena downstairs. As she helped us into the tiny elevator with our bags, she chattered away in extremely confident English. Her manner was friendly and energetic, and her Farrah Fawcett hairdo and fading windbreaker with matching pants made her appear simultaneously familiar and oddly foreign, a bit like a failed Russian attempt at americana. I later found out that there is a very distinct "around the house" dress which does not resemble actual Russian fashion (more on Russian fashion later). As we entered the apartment for the first time, we quickly removed our shoes without being asked. We had been warned ahead of time of this practice, although probably could have guessed based on the array of shoes just inside the door. I looked up to see Nastya giving a timid "hello", despite the fact that we later found her to speak flawless English. Andrei appeared soon after from the living room followed by the fat orange cat Nika. I will give a better biography of Nastya and Andrei later.
Shoes:
Nika:
It was time to choose rooms. It seemed Danny and I had our choice between the master bedroom and Nastya's room. As we flipped a 5 ruble coin, Lena told us that Andrei would be sleeping on the couch in the living room and that she and Nastya would staying out of the house as often as possible (although it is still unclear exactly where). I had been there five minutes, and already felt like I was intruding. After we placed our bags in our respective rooms, Danny's in the master and mine in Nastya's, we moved past the bathtub and seperate toilet to the kitchen for tea.
My room!:
After tea there was an explanation of the general workings of the house. The faucets were turned on like this, the bathroom lights worked like this, the soap could be left here but not there, the first lock on the door had to be locked with a turn to the right only when no one was home but the second was locked regardless with a turn to the left and breakfast would be at 8:45. Hmm. I tried hard to commit this all to memory in the hope that I would appear unclumsy and perhaps impress my hosts with what a quick learner I was. This was not to be. The first slip up came the next morning, following my sitting shower. Nastya came to tell me that after showers we were required to mop up any leftover water with the sponge by the sink. With typical Russian frankness she concluded: "This is for the benefit of us all, so that we can all live comfortably together, understand?" I thought I understood.
Our bathtub with shower nozzel:
The following morning, my confused circadian rhythm woke me early, although it's hard to know precisely when because the sun only sets for a few hours around 1am. I decided to try my luck with the new bath/shower technique. I took extra care (and extra time) to make sure the tub looked better than when I found it. I was brushing my teeth at the sink with the towel around my waist when I heard a knock at the door. It was Andrei, looking flustered. I let him use the bathroom. After he got out he brought me into the bathroom to, as he said in Russian, explain something to me. That is about where my comprehension cut out, but judging by the pointing and the intonation, I had done something wrong with the bathtub, towels, and possibly the sink. He also informed me that I was not to use the bathroom until after 8:40, as he needed it before work. Despite not understanding what was expected of me, I decided I would do better next time. As it turned out, I never got my chance for redemption.
When Lena returned that evening, she brought me into the bathroom. In English she asked me if I had my own towel. I told her no, and when she asked which towel I had used I pointed to the beach towel bearing an image of a beautiful sunset and the word "Hawaii" across the bottom. I had grabbed this towel off the top of a stack of four or five towels that morning, not giving it a second thought. Lena sighed, "This is Andrei's towel, and Danny has used my towel." Embarassed I immediately apologized.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "I can go get a new towel right away, I didn't realize."
"It is not sorry. (this phrase, which she kept repeating, I believe meant: "don't be sorry") It is just...never in my life, have I seen this. First time in my life." Her face expressed the incredulity that she was obviously feeling.
"I'm very sorry," I repeated. Feeling my own brand of incredulity, but trying to imagine how I could make ammends. "I will not use these towels again."
"No, not sorry. This is too late now. You shall use these towels until I wash them." She spoke with an accent that showed she had been taught British English. She sighed again and shook her head while repeating, "never in my life." I was too guilty to laugh.
"Ok, well I can go buy a new towel right away. That would be no problem," I said, speaking honestly, but also trying to get her to stop saying, "never in my life."
"This is your choice. Right now you will use these towels until I wash them." I didn't see the conversation going anywhere so I apologized again and said goodnight. Sensing my embarrassment she added, "I am not mad, you must understand, if I am mad I would never let you know it." This wasn't comforting. She chuckled and shook her head, again bidding me goodnight with, "you must understand. First time in my life."
I was a bit upset. I really liked my host family, and I wanted to live as peacefully and unintrusively with them as possible, and I felt that despite my best efforts I was failing. Yet at the same time, or perhaps because of this, I felt a sense of injustice.
While I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep my head swirled with all the things I had experienced since arriving in Russia:
сырок
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a shower with no curtain
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a homemade bed
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the litterbox next to the toilet
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sour cream on everything
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tea as the only form of hydration
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20 hours of daylight and no full curtain
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people drinking 20 ounce beer cans on the way to work
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Suddenly a thought came to me.
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"First time in my life."
