Well my brother's in-laws came to visit, and I've been drunk off vermouth all morning.

His father-in-law asked me if I've milked a cow before. I said no.
He said, "You will."

He asked me if I liked milk. I said, sort of.
He said, "You will."

My sister-in-law's cousin likes to provoke Lithuanian police. He lives in Sweden, now.

I apparently only dream while intoxicated

So I walk into the MTV store - no big deal, and then all of the sudden, everyone around me is like "WOAHH, IT'S 7-UP!" And I look behind me, and sure enough, it's 7-UP, also known as Snoop Dogg. Pretty cool, I think to myself, but then, he walks up to this T-Shirt rack and picks one up, and is like "Hey! What do you think of this one?" And he is clearly trying to be cheeky and the T-shirt practically depicts Battlestar Galactica, and then Ally emerges from the downstairs of the store and picks one off the rack that's almost identical and is just like "I KNOW!" and the three of us try to find the corniest, kitchiest T-shirts in the store, and 7-UP is so pleased that he is like HEY, shopping's on me today! And we both stare at him blankly, and try to explain that we have no interest in buying anything at the MTV store.

I just made the unfortunate decision to put a little bit of soy sauce on my salad because the color reminded me of balsamic vinegar. When I asked my grandmother if I could find any balsamic here, she, shocked, asked me if I truly meant the liquor.

Touching upon Feminism

My sister-in-law is shocked that I am living with two guys next year.

"But aren't you scared of the male psychology?"

Yes, Kami and Jon are definitely terrifying predators.

Fast-forwarding to a later point in the conversation - I tried to explain my understanding of certain topics through feminism. She nodded politely and said that she knew what feminism meant, and then, again politely, left the room. A few minutes later, she called out from the living room, "So does that mean you're not planning on getting married?"

My brother's cat has taken up residence in my suitcase

His coloration is remarkably similar to that of my wardrobe.




EDIT: He is cleaning himself now. In my suitcase. I hope he cleans the suitcase, too. Maybe he knows how to fold clothes...

In my mid-morning, early-afternoon leisure time, I have decided to begin regularly exercising in order to gain the strength and agility of my peasant forefathers (or mothers). Unfortunately, the day that I made this decision was the day that the city chose to shut off hot water for two weeks in my apartment building - a regular procedure in this part of the world. My sister-in-law called it some word that I translated to preservative, or laxative - I think I might have misunderstood her. Heating up two pots of hot water in order to bathe must be something I have done before, so in the end, this procedure is beneficial - maybe it will trigger some frigid bath time memories from the Soviet days (this has to be one of the reasons people don't smile very often).

On the bright side, the strawberries here are better than any I have tasted before (or again, I must have tasted these before, but thank god for psychological mental blocks, I get to experience this fruit as if I never have before). It's unclear where any of the fresh produce comes from. As far as I understand, they're continuing to farm in the Chernobyl affected areas. It's probably more economical to shop that way, makes you stronger, etc.

My brother told me to check out hot tours to Egypt or Turkey. To explain, these are vacation packages that are all inclusive (unlimited pizza, vodka - two things Eastern Europeans seem to love), beaches, foreigners. When you go on one of these, you do not leave the premises of the hotel (why would you look at pyramids when you can find pictures on the internet?), and every night attend the hotel club, which is frequented by a rotating group of ten people (five of which will be bored looking Czech girls every time).

To be honest, Turkey is looking pretty good. They probably have hot water there. And Czech girls.

Also, I met some idealists yesterday. Details, currently irrelevant, but will be shared later. I really appreciated that meeting. I also realized, yesterday, that I have sometimes started thinking in English with a Russian accent.

Today was the first time since I got here that I walked around anywhere by myself. I thought I was going to go sit in a coffee shop, and attempt to write down interactions I may have made up in my head anyway, but instead, I just sat outside, and I looked around the very clean boulevard. A television broadcasted news of the president, nearby. All the coffee shops looked too social. I didn't write anything down. (Later, on the metro, I ran into my brother's wife - had to take off my headphones, remember where I was. She told me I shouldn't walk around here by myself dressed like I do, because my dress is tempting to men. I don't dress here any differently than how I dress anywhere else. She also wanted to know if people in America had vegetable or flower gardens. I told her that probably somewhere, they did.)

On my way away from home, and then on my way home, I listened to music on repeat, in English. I have found that this eases some of my confusion - if I can't hear the Russian, I can't begin to create and reiterate connotations. I find it really hard to smile here. It's not because I am particularly unhappy, but there are so many associations that I hold with this culture, this language, that it's hard to separate my understanding of my history from walking down the street. I find myself often disgusted. I don't like that. I don't understand where it comes from.

Two days ago, I drank two bottles of vodka with my brother and cousin. My brother says that he and this cousin are the two normal people in the family. I asked him if he thought I was normal, too. He answered that I lived in America, and didn't count. My grandmother told me about a week ago that my brother doesn't think he is a part of this family. My cousin's girlfriend works in the restaurant we went to, called Manga, and referencing Japanese graphic novels. On the last page of the sushi menu, an anime girl suggestively licks a popsicle. It was a page for deserts. I mentioned to my brother and cousin that one of my biggest fears was looking like an anime character. My cousin gestured that anime characters have large breasts. I explained, I meant in the face.

We got a ride home from a stranger - it was cheaper than a taxi.

The next morning, at least three family members called or asked about when I got home the night before. My cousin told his mother that I left early, I guess to keep her from being worried. She called my brother and asked him why he got his cousin drunk. My brother told her he was 22 and perfectly able to make his own decisions.

The next night, my brother and I went back to the restaurant. We ordered beer. I tried to show him how to use chopsticks, but he was too embarrassed to learn in the restaurant - there were lots of girls in the room. He told me to take the chopsticks home to show him there. My cousin's girlfriend said that my cousin was hugging the toilet all night. He wasn't used to drinking so much vodka. The night we all drank together they tried to tell me the Russian word for "show-off" and said my mother likes to use it a lot.

My grandmother keeps telling me I take after my father. I tell her I resent that comment and that she can't choose who I take after only knowing two people that I interact with regularly. She tells me to stay and eat some soup. I do, but I leave as soon as I finish eating, and take the metro to the center of the city, to walk by myself. I thought I was going to go sit in a coffee shop, and attempt to write down interactions I may have made up in my head anyway, but instead, I just sat outside, and I looked around the very clean boulevard.

Even here, people and their dogs look alike. I saw one ugly pitbull of a man today.

One night of Vodka infused dreams

I had a dream that I passed a woman on the street and she asked me if I spoke English, and it was not me, but her who was so excited to speak to an American. I think she was a missionary, or trying to sell bibles, so despite the linguistic coincidence, we had nothing to say to each other.

I had another dream that Sandra Bullock and I hit it off really well and she confessed that Hugh was cheating on her, and kept this notebook - orange notebook, that, after our friendship was confirmed, she passed on to me to do something with it. Kami was personally really psyched at our relationship.

I had another dream in which every Friday, I would inexplicably undergo some horror. After the first two, I caught on and tried to keep someone around at all times. In the latest (I'm not sure how the dream ends, though this describes the last of those adventures). I was trying to open a package (which looked like a small, light blue, jewelry pillow) and goo came out of it, which immediately knocked me out. Upon driving, later, to investigate, I asked for a volunteer off the street to try touching it, and the same thing happened to him. Upon re-entry into the car, I saw that the side compartment was actually a pornographic video game. After losing once (someone's naked body burst into flames - that's losing), I refrained from playing despite wanting to get past the Friday night horror an continue with my week, because for some reason I decided that my mother was the best guardian for that night, and my grandmother just happened to be in the car. This is too Freudian to be Freudian. The previous "Friday night horrors" involved some kind of blood.

I feel like I should explain, because I can't remember the first eight years of my life

Before I left for Belarus, I had thought that I would start an e-mail list that would inform everyone interested (or pretending to be so) of my daily activities, my observations, and my ever heightening knowledge of life and living as perpetuated by foreign culture. Instead, I find myself tangled up in dozens of correspondences, individual, and exhausting (already, though it’s only been a week). Somehow, I think this is much more rewarding.

I live here, hazily. I still don’t remember anything, but I look at objects, and I touch objects, and they feel familiar. Now, because I am so aware of a gap in my memory, and the magic that I have tried to refill it with (only after being culturally conditioned as an American, though), I look at things a little bit longer. I try to remember specific scenes, so I can recall the time that my grandmother invited her neighbor over to show me off. And how before the neighbor came over, my uncle tried to introduce me to his friend "going into business". And how she fed me soup, and she and her neighbor sat next to each other, wearing house dresses, and sharing bread, hot dogs, and tea. How she accidentally tried to drink her neighbors tea, and the other one didn’t mention anything and insisted it was ok. How she asked me if I wanted chives in my soup because she wasn’t sure and she didn’t want to just put them in because she didn’t know what I would like.

In my apartment, I pick up objects and I recognize them, though I have not been able to recall a single interaction I’ve had or moment in which those objects had significance. I can’t remember my parents walking through the house, I can’t remember my parents eating dinner. I remember when the closet in the little bedroom split the room so that I could sleep on a couch, and my brother could sleep in his half of the room, with only a semblance of privacy.

Today, while watching the Watchmen, I remembered that I was here when my great-grand-mother died, and I think I went to her funeral, and I think I might have met her once. There was no reason for me to remember that. It was during the scene in which they are burying The Comedian. Despite the fact that I saw the movie in English, I had felt it was in Russian.

In a drawer I found a fanny pack. I am certain it is one that my mom wore in England, though I don’t think, again, that this is from remembering. It is from a photograph I must have seen.

When I was at my grandmother’s house, I almost didn’t recognize any of it. In the living room, I remembered playing with my little cousin once. We pretended to be hiding in an elevator. That elevator must have been a cupboard. I think I know which one it was.

My apartment building has a familiar smell. I think it might be urine, or dirt, or something like that. It’s indistinguishable, but familiar. It’s not very pleasant.

On the balcony, I saw a box that I recognized. I don’t recall what was ever kept in it, but now, I just noticed a pair of glasses. When my grandmother and aunt came over to see me, my grandmother mentioned losing her glasses. I looked in the box after that. They must be her glasses.

My brother laughed about how I kept asking the train attendant for more noodles on our way to Moscow the last time I was there. And how I locked myself in the bathroom to put make-up on, an hour before arriving, much to the dismay of the other people on the train who needed to use the bathroom - they lock the bathrooms thirty minutes before arrival. I didn’t know that.

I don’t remember any of those things. When we asked the train attendant if they had any noodles on our way home from Gomel, she had no idea what we were talking about. Eight years later, I have no taste of what that memory would have felt like.

I went on a walk with my brother on my second night here. We went to the same park we went to together the last time I was here. Last time, we fed birds by a canal. This time, we did the same thing, in the same place. Different birds though. The last one was a raven, or a crow. This time, it was ducks in the water, and then, just a bunch of pigeons.

My brother asked me if I had seen Kill Bill. I told him I was waiting for him because that was the last movie we were supposed to watch together when I was here last. I remember that.