With less than seven hours before I embark on a new journey, I sit in my room. Bags packed, language brushed up on, carry-on stocked with books and other amusements for the 18 hours of travel ahead of me.
In the next four months I'll be a студента (student) at St. Petersburg State University, or simply known as СПБГУ (short for Санкт-Петербург государственной университете) in Russian. I'll wade through three language classes, a 19th century literature class, and a politics and current events class five days a week, ninety minutes a day.
All in Russian.
I'll live in an apartment dreamt up by the most inane Soviet planners, dodge cars and lorries down Nevsky Prospekt, visit Moscow, Novgorod, Tallinn, and who-knows-where else, observe all 165 million Russians wait with bated breath to see what Putin will do come time for elections (both parliamentary and presidential), enjoy temperatures ranging from a balmy 70 degrees to a bitterly cold -20 (with wind-chill), drink copious amounts of vodka/beer/homebrew forced into my hands, and of course, meet 40-odd people just like me who for some reason, believe that a trip to one of the most enigmatic and vexing countries in the world would be an absolutely perfect idea.
Am I ready? Perhaps. Physically I am. Mentally, perhaps. Either way, I'm going to be on a plane in 7 hours.
Before a trip, I always think that I have forgotten to bring something with me. Something that is just passed over during the frenzied packing, like a toothbrush or an extra pair of socks. I hate that feeling. I also hate it even more when I realize that the thing I have forgotten to bring along with me doesn't really fit into a suitcase or backpack.
It's the idea of what could have been.
Until Russia,
Alex
