Day 1
Today I finally arrived in Grand Forks. I should confess that I was more than nervous to step down from the plane on American soil. Immediately, however, all my apprehension was dissolved by an effective white-haired lady who was enthusiastically brandishing a paper sign that had my name on it. Once I approached the lady, I was given such a violent hug that for a second I was not sure whether having dinner on the plane had been, indeed, the right thing. The lady introduced herself and in an intentionally loud high-pitched voice pausing between the syllables asked me whether I spoke English. I assured her in the best English I could summon at the moment that my hearing did not require any vocal enhancement and that my command of the language was certainly adequate to communicate beyond the telegraphic style she assumed, the fact that gave the lady much consolation and brought a wide smile to her aging face. A lady next to her turned out to be an interpreter, although as I immediately found out, her Russian definitely needed further elaboration along all major dimensions of the language. My stuff was quickly packed in the back of a spacious van and our party started heading for the city. The ride from the airport, which by the way had only two gates but nevertheless was called international because it offered a flight to a nearby Canadian town, did not impress me that much: all I could see around me were great American plains with scarce vegetation and an occasional barn in the background. The billboards on both sides of the highway advertised some intricate farming equipment and the latest creations of the fast food industry. Once we arrived on campus, I was dropped off at a dormitory that would be my home for the whole year. A resident assistant, a cheerful girl in her early twenties, who, judging by her imposing physique was an avid advocate of phospolipids and a sedentary life style, checked me in fairly quickly. Throughout the formalities she kept telling me that I was the first “live” Russian she had ever seen, the fact that made me wonder whether I should be honored or distraught. I was assigned to a double-room, which at the moment did not bear any signs of my roommate. The girl notified me that my roommate was due the next day and dropping to a confidential whisper told me to immediately inform her if my roommate gave me any trouble. That was really sweet of her and my only wish in that regard was not to be troubled to the extent that would prevent me from actually complaining about it.
Day 2
Well, what do you know? Today I had the pleasure to meet my roommate. He arrived at the most unfortunate moment when I was in the middle of unpacking. Naturally I threw some of my stuff on his bed while I was looking for places in the closet to accommodate all my belongings. Thanks to my excessively
considerate mom, these mainly consisted of cooking utensils which by themselves could ensure an independent life style for me, had I opted to move out of the dorms and seek shelter in the nearby woods. To top it all off my mom also provided me with all kinds of produce from our country garden which also included a plastic bag full of dried mint leaves to steep them in my tea. I am quite a tea drinker, you see. So that plastic bag was just sitting there on my desk pending further arrangements when suddenly it became the main focus of my roommate’s attention who had just walked into the room and without even a hint at a greeting of any kind started for my desk, his eyes growing wider as he made progress. Out of the blue his first remark was: “Hey, man, that’s a lot of damn pot you got there.” I should note that at that time I was not well versed in American slang and the only meaning of the word pot that came to my mind was associated with a great variety of cooking pots that my mom so lavishly furnished me with. So thinking that that was what he meant (although he dispensed with the plural form when he referred to that great variety of tin items scattered all over the room) I nodded in frustrated agreement. His next question, however, completely perplexed me. Can I have some? he asked with a look indicating the rhetorical nature of the question. Having been brought up in the Soviet Union I imbibed with my mother’s milk the concept of sharing, and although I was quite taken aback by such a straightforward request, it was not at all alien to me. So, I simply said yes to the inquiry, thinking that American students must be as poor as their Russian counterparts if they cannot even afford to have a set of pots of their own. My roommate’s next move, however, left me wondering whether his mental capacity was, indeed, intact. With the speed of a madman he snatched the bag from my desk and started struggling with my mom’s intricate knot, which she made sure to be a tough one lest the bag burst open during the rigors of luggage handling at the airport. Finally, his violent attempts came to a fruitful conclusion and his shaking hand reached deeply into the bag. Upon producing a handful of mint leaves, he started smelling them with a look of sweet anticipation on his well-tanned face. Suddenly his features changed, however, and a look of disappointment came to darken his expression. With an air of indignation he shot at me: “What the hell? Man, this stuff smells like mint!” I was quite impressed by this piece of botanical knowledge on his part and supported his conjecture with alacrity. His next question, on the other hand, came as a non-sequitor. “How can you, guys, smoke this stuff?” – was all he asked, but that was enough for me to realize that I should probably learn more about the American ways of doing things. I tried to reason with the man telling him that smoking was not the primary purpose for which mint was cultivated and mentioned that if brewed with tea it could add a soothing flavor to the beverage, making it quite palatable. Having realized his faux pas, the guy got personal: “So, why the hell did you tell me that it was pot in the first place, ha?” My Russian accent and faltered speech helped me to convince the guy that I did not intend to play a joke on him but was simply a victim of my own linguistic deficiency. Additionally, to alleviate the tension I offered him a pack of Russian cigarettes that he took with great suspicion, which was not entirely unfounded I might add.Day 3
Since I had embarked on the treacherous path of university learning, I figured that as a student I should learn how to think logically. Naturally then I registered for an Introduction to Logic and Scientific Method. Upon entering a quite spacious auditorium I was immediately filled with awe and trepidation in anticipation of sweeping knowledge, ingenious ideas and undefeatable arguments which I had doubts that my unscholarly mind would be able to grasp. So, humbly I took a seat in the back of the room away from the lectern. Five minutes elapsed, however, with no indication that the professor was going to make our acquaintance. Then gradually our ears started picking out muffled sounds of someone’s shuffling approach, and pretty soon a stooping figure of a decrepit looking old fellow appeared in the door. He was wearing huge glasses to match the thickness of the lenses, which I thought must have been originally used for astronomical purposes by Hobble himself. The guy was supposedly a very learned individual who had earned the title of professor emeritus, and who had published numerous articles in the field of logic and philosophy in general. These achievements, however, did not seem to assuage the factor of advanced age that appeared to dominate the professor’s speech throughout his absent-minded introduction. (Later I suspected that the coherence of the speech was intentionally omitted, for even a first-day student of logic could easily notice that that was exactly what was missing in it). Suddenly with a heart-felt sigh the professor declared: “Now I am going to pass out.” In the ensuing pause most of the students turned pale considering the plight of the poor man. Nevertheless, the professor found strength to finish the sentence after a good minute of the class’s compassionate involvement: “I mean, I am going to pass out the syllabi.” With a look of genuine relief the class moved back from the edges of their seats fully engaging their auditory systems in order not to loose a single word that was shyly taking phonetic shape in the corner of the professor’s mouth. Quite frankly, I regretted my choice of seating as I started wondering whether the lady at the airport had indeed been right and I did need a hearing aid. Fortunately, the lecture was only introductory and after the syllabus was covered, it became apparent that the professor could’ve actually made good on his promise, had he
not retired to recover till our next meeting.Day 4
Today I decided to pay a visit to the International Center of the University so as to extend the hand of friendship to those lonely characters who only felt comfortable among other foreigners. Upon entering the premises I was welcomed by the same lady from the airport who happened to be an international coordinator (a term that definitely needed some kind of an indirect object). Having expressed with only a paragraph her joy at seeing me, she immediately invited me to fill out a questionnaire in which the guardians of political correctness were making discrete inquiries about how international students preferred to be addressed. The list provided many options one of which read, “alien”. Although I had come from overseas I thought it was not so far as to be classified “alien”. Unconsciously though I started checking other people for signs of physical abnormalities that would enable them to fall under the definition. My superficial screening did not reveal any warning signs of malformations and I proceeded to meet the students in the room. Having made acquaintance with all of them I felt fortunate at having chosen psychology as my major and consequently thought that the international center could be a good place for my future internship. A guy from Fiji, for starters, completely overwhelmed me with his verbal output, which was only slightly lagging behind the speed of the latest Intel technology. In combination with a sort of Hindu accent his soliloquy could undoubtedly generate an ample field for psycholinguistic research. The diagnosis of forced speech inadvertently came to mind but quickly vanished as I distinctly heard the guy ask me whether I could cook him some eggs. For a second my face did not express any reaction as I was still processing the request. Seeing my lack of compliance the guy explained that he was in fact quite hungry since he did not like frequenting the cafeteria, which in his words provided a bad atmosphere for him. He further noted that he lacked cooking skills since at home he had maids and a cook. At that point I was not sure whether to ask the man about the amount of my salary or to tutor him in egg boiling. I politely started digressing from the topic of eggs asking him questions about his choice of the university so remote from a safe home environment. “It’s quite simple, you see,” – was his quick response. “I have never seen snow, so I want to wait till it snows, make a big snowball, put it in a thermos and bring it home.” That kind of ambition raised the man to new heights in my eyes. (His dream would never come true, though. The day before he left he made a snowball and put it in a freezer at the international center. That very evening a student caretaker who lived at the center would find it and throw it out condemning the act of the lunatic who tried to delimit the capacity of the freezer by stuffing it up with snow).
By Dmitri Poltavski