Katie in Chicago (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} pass_da_pierogi) wrote,@ 2008-01-14 03:21:00 |
|
Eurasian moment
Our first assignment for my new media storytelling class is to start a blog. We have to write at least five short entries a week commenting on new developments in whatever topic we choose. I came up with "The Politics & Culture of Revolution: News from Georgia, Ukraine and Kyrgyzstan."
Tonight I went to Evanston for a free bachata lesson taught by the campus dance group. I stayed after to work with Felicia on our blogs.
I wrote a short summary of the political developments in the three countries after their color / flower revolutions. In all three countries, pushing out authoritarian rulers through relatively peaceful street protest seemed like the work that would earn them a fresh start. In all three countries, the rulers have turned out to be just about as fallible as their predecessors.
I spent several hours reading Eastern European news and finding bloggers and newspapers to link to. I reveled in the Slavic names and combed through Russian sites looking for words I understood.
On my way home, Chicago Public Radio was playing "The Voice of Russia," a program with overly dramatic introductory music and announcers with thick accents weighing on their tongues. It was lovely. I darted around the potholes on Howard and for a moment could imagine myself back in Eastern Europe. One of the commentators mentioned that it was New Year's according to the old calendar. I wished I had sent holiday greetings to my host family, partner teacher and students.
When I arrived home, a man with a severe limp held the door from the garage to the elevators for me. He smiled at me and, to my surprise, named my apartment number. "Right?" he asked.
He seemed vaguely familiar. We probably met in the elevator this summer.
"I remember you," he said with an Eastern European accent. "I'm in 24B."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Zaro," he said, shaking my hand. "What's yours again?"
"Katie."
"Kitty!" he said, squeezing my hand with both of his. "What were you doing out so late?"
"I was studying," I said. "Nothing interesting."
"I was having a great time," he said. "It was Serbian New Year tonight."
"Oh it was!" I said, flooded with joy to have stumbled upon the holiday right in my elevator. "Happy New Year!"
The enthusiasm was infectious. He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on the cheeks. After the second kiss I started to step back, but he went for the third.
"Three times in Serbia!" he said.
I wished him a happy New Year again as I stepped out onto my floor, grinning to have stepped out of my culture for just a moment to take part in the celebration.
Our first assignment for my new media storytelling class is to start a blog. We have to write at least five short entries a week commenting on new developments in whatever topic we choose. I came up with "The Politics & Culture of Revolution: News from Georgia, Ukraine and Kyrgyzstan."
Tonight I went to Evanston for a free bachata lesson taught by the campus dance group. I stayed after to work with Felicia on our blogs.
I wrote a short summary of the political developments in the three countries after their color / flower revolutions. In all three countries, pushing out authoritarian rulers through relatively peaceful street protest seemed like the work that would earn them a fresh start. In all three countries, the rulers have turned out to be just about as fallible as their predecessors.
I spent several hours reading Eastern European news and finding bloggers and newspapers to link to. I reveled in the Slavic names and combed through Russian sites looking for words I understood.
On my way home, Chicago Public Radio was playing "The Voice of Russia," a program with overly dramatic introductory music and announcers with thick accents weighing on their tongues. It was lovely. I darted around the potholes on Howard and for a moment could imagine myself back in Eastern Europe. One of the commentators mentioned that it was New Year's according to the old calendar. I wished I had sent holiday greetings to my host family, partner teacher and students.
When I arrived home, a man with a severe limp held the door from the garage to the elevators for me. He smiled at me and, to my surprise, named my apartment number. "Right?" he asked.
He seemed vaguely familiar. We probably met in the elevator this summer.
"I remember you," he said with an Eastern European accent. "I'm in 24B."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Zaro," he said, shaking my hand. "What's yours again?"
"Katie."
"Kitty!" he said, squeezing my hand with both of his. "What were you doing out so late?"
"I was studying," I said. "Nothing interesting."
"I was having a great time," he said. "It was Serbian New Year tonight."
"Oh it was!" I said, flooded with joy to have stumbled upon the holiday right in my elevator. "Happy New Year!"
The enthusiasm was infectious. He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on the cheeks. After the second kiss I started to step back, but he went for the third.
"Three times in Serbia!" he said.
I wished him a happy New Year again as I stepped out onto my floor, grinning to have stepped out of my culture for just a moment to take part in the celebration.
