The Orange Peel

(Меня научила говорить по-русски Ксюша, так что, если у меня будут ошибки, можно обратиться к ней.)

Дорогие Ксюша и Паша, я хочу вам рассказать историю о маленьком мандарине. Он был очень хороший мандарин, был ярко-оранжевый, красивый и круглый. И он думал, "как мне хорошо, я могу делать все, что хочу, можу идти туда, куда я хочу. Но была одна проблема, он был одинокий. Он не мог общаться с другими мандаринами потому что у него была кожура. Но потом пришли два человека, Паша и Ксюша, и открыли его кожуру, и он смог делать то, что должны делать все мандарины- делиться собой с другими. Итак, Ксюша и Паша, никогда не прячьте друг от друга, в хорошие дни и плохие, пусть ваши сердца всегда будут открыты друг к другу. Любите друг друга без кожуры!

(I learned my Russian from Ksusha, so if I make mistakes, please take them up with her.)

Dear Ksusha and Pasha, I want to tell you a story about a little mandarin orange. This was a very good mandarin, he was a beautiful bright orange and perfectly round. He often thought to himself, "how lucky I am, I can do whatever I want to and roll around wherever I please." But there was one problem, the little mandarin was lonely, and this was not a problem easily solved because though his peel was very pretty, it kept him separated from all the other oranges. It wasn't until two people came along, Ksusha and Pasha, and opened the little orange, that he was able to do what all mandarines are supposed to do- share himself with others. And so, Ksusha and Pasha, never hide from each other, don't be afraid of each other. In good days and in bad days, don't hide your hearts behind tough peels, but keep your hearts open towards each other no matter what. Love each other always without the peel!

The snow dusted secrets of Lviv

I am in Lviv, Ukraine, and I am enchanted. As I walk through the city center, I keep my eyes open wide, hoping somehow to see more of the stones in the cobblestone streets, more of the light snow that dusts every statue and monument. Each time my feet take me passed an imposing, mountainous cathedral, I strain my neck in my eyes, looking on and on, etching the images in my memory. And of course, each coffee or chocolate shop I pass calls out to me, though I try to content myself with the much cheaper but no less pleasing smells of the products, instead of making purchases.

Lviv seems to be a city that holds secrets. Perhaps these secrets are old and will remain locked away in the beautifully stony architecture forever. Perhaps those secrets are as simple as the old men standing in a small markets square selling old, very used books. Somehow I doubt that I will be unlocking many secrets during my week in Lviv, but I am not bothered by this.

I notice a one-roomed grocery store with dark wooden shelves behind a glass refrigerator . I step into the store and stand there without saying anything, uncertain why I chose to walk through this particular door. Against one bare wall stands an upright piano, and it distracts me from both the the lady watching me from behind a glass refrigerated counter and the products she is hoping to sell. "What do you want?" she asks in Ukrainian.

I don't speak Ukrainian, at least, not more than the 20 words my partner has taught me in the past two days. But the locals don't take kindly to the Russian tongue, so I am determined to use all 20 words as much as possible. I tell her I don't know what I want, but I manage to ask about the piano. She understands. "First buy something, then you can play the piano." She recommends chocolate and asks somewhat apprehensively if I am from Russia.

100 grams of chocolate costs less than a dollar, but it buys me unlimited access to the piano. After assuring the lady that I am not Russian, I sit down at the prematurely aged keys and the rest of the world goes blank. In my subconscious, I notice that each time a customer enters the store, the lady loudly announces, "That is an American." But it doesn't bother me. They keys under my fingers express the wonder and delight I feel this night, but in this city of secrets even the clear notes of the piano are shadowed and melancholic.

After half an hour I have exhausted both my musical repertoire and my Ukrainian vocabulary. The lady is probably praising my playing or asking me to come again, but all I can do is nod politely and make my exit. I hear her loudly talking about "the American" even after I cross the street.

Send it through the window!

The apartment two doors down from me is home to one of those classic "crazy old cat ladies". Granted, she only has two cats and regularly feeds 2-3 more that don't live with her, but at 79 years old she is still spry enough to roam the driveway whistling for her cats at all hours of the night. She is rumored to search through everybody's recycling, and she has a poof of stark-white hair that makes her a good two inches taller, wears bright purple makeup, and is one of the skinniest people I've ever seen.

It's not what you say...

In theory, there are 6 official languages at the United Nations. However, it's a popular joke that the 7th UN language is "UN-ese". It turns out that in order for the UN to successfully make any decisions or statements, they have to water down the way they word things, otherwise various parties (ie: countries) would object, and nothing would ever get done.

The Miracle Egg

Easter. An elaborate and treasured tradition, especially in Russia. But this post is not about the holiday, it's about a family that invited me to enjoy Easter lunch with them. The art of receiving guests is also a cherished tradition in Russia, and I was shown the warmest of welcomes.

The key to [success] found me

My supervisor gave me a task. It wasn't a challenging or glorious task, she simply said, "Please make two copies of this key." She also gave me directions to a nearby key shop. Simple.

Delegates on the loose!

Today in my consecutive interpretation class we were joined by the German and Korean groups. We role played an meeting to set up a joint research lab on stem cells