Building Bridges of Cheese

My craving for Gouda cheese would not go away, and I soon found myself on the hunt for some in the dairy section of a grocery store in south-west Moscow.  I asked the girl behind the counter where the Gouda was, but she just looked at me as if I had asked her on which aisle I might find the the lost Princess Anastasia.  

Great.

Apparently the word "Gouda" is not one of those blessed international cognates that often comes to the rescue when navigating conversations in a foreign language.  I wasn't about to give up on my quest, but I was getting nowhere fast trying to explain the intricacies of Gouda to a non-connoisseur of cheese.  After several minutes of trying to penetrate the language barrier, I was about to pull out my phone and consult Google translate but a nearby woman walked over and asked me what I was looking for.

"Gouda," I said as clearly as possible.

She replied, "Oh, you mean Gouda.  It's right over there."

She pointed to an aisle behind me where I quickly spotted my beloved Gouda.  I then rolled my eyes because I had pronounced it "GOO-dah" but my cheese savior pronounced it "GOW-duh," at which point the girl behind the counter quipped in exasperation, "Well, why didn't you just say so?!"  At that point I felt like retorting in a British accent, "It's levi-OOO-sa, not levio-SAAA!"  But then I didn't because I doubted they would appreciate the Harry Potter reference.

So I grabbed the Gouda and made my way to the checkout line.  It just so happened that my good cheese Samaritan stood in line behind me with her groceries, so I took the time to thank her for helping me complete my cheese quest.  She said not to mention it, but having noticed my accent she asked me where I'm from.

I paused for just a second.

Whenever people ask me this question, I deliberate over the advice from my well-meaning Moscow Program coordinators to lie about my origins.  They suggest that whenever people ask it's best to answer with England or Canada.  After all, Russia is not on the brink of war with either of these countries, and they seem to think that if I mask the crime of my American birth it will help me avoid inciting conflict on the streets of Moscow.  

But I hate to lie.  And I really enjoy watching people's reactions.

"The United States of America," I proudly answered.

Her eyes widened and the curious smile disappeared from her face.

"But what about the sanctions?!" she questioned, assuming that this sensitive subject was grounds enough to rebuild the Berlin Wall starting right there in the super-market.

First, you have to realize that Russians are much more open to the idea of discussing politics, a topic mostly forbidden in American culture even among close friends and family.  Knowing this I wasn't completely caught off guard, but I knew I had to choose my next words carefully.

"Yes, it's true our governments are political enemies, but that doesn't mean the citizens can't be friends.  Don't you agree?"

She thought for a moment, then her smile returned.

"I suppose you're right," she agreed.

Did you know that Russia is the U.S.'s closest non-contiguous
neighbor?  Our continental land masses are about 53 miles
apart, but there are two islands straddling the center of the
strait (Big Diomede, Russia, and Little Diomede, US) that bring
the distance down to about 2.5 miles at their closest point.

I've thought a lot about my experience with that woman and how we totally bonded over Dutch cheese.  And although I'm just an American drop in an ocean of Russians, I like to think that it's through small and simple experiences like this that great things come about.  There's still a long way to go before we bridge the gulf between our nations, but I am confident that both sides of the Bering Strait will soon realize that our differences are far outweighed by what we have in common.

And Then There's Love

Moscow does not wake up till 9 or 10am.  This was a problem for me at first because the sun blasts through my window around 4am and illuminates my bedroom like a permanent camera flash, and I suddenly find myself wide awake at a time when the rest of the world is fast asleep.  And so I go for a run, play around on the monkey bars near my hotel, make a hot breakfast, study scriptures, study Russian, and then it's still just 8 o'clock or so and two hours remain before the city starts warming up.  But as jet lag has gradually worn off and I've learned to keep the bedroom curtains tightly closed I've more or less fine tuned my sleep schedule so that I can at least sleep a few extra hours in spite of the upcoming summer solstice.

Aslan and I in front of
the Temple of Christ the Savior

I've spent these first couple weeks getting used to the metro system, which is a vast network of subway tunnels that closely resembles a spider web stretched across the Moscow River with Red Square at the center.  Virtually anywhere I need to go is a short walk away from a metro station, which makes getting around very convenient.  And each time I descend into the metro I feel like I'm stepping into the wizarding world, because the stations often have cavernous, vaulted ceilings that are exquisitely decorated (much like the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry Magic).

Red Square (behind me) is in the center of Moscow

Classes have already begun, and my instructor's name is Eugene (Евгений).  I consider him to be an adorable old man who spends much of each class time imparting bits of Russian wisdom to us and extolling the virtues of President Putin.  He also reminds me just a bit of Albert Einstein with his short stature, frizzy snow white hair and mustache.  But apart from his endearing idiosyncrasies, he is proving to be a good teacher.  Right now we are discussing immigration and the reasons why people move to another country, and we listed off the most well known reasons:  economic hardship, political unrest, war, etc.  And then Cassandra, one of the students in the class, explained how her now husband moved from Ukraine to the U.S.  Eugene immediately gets this starry look in his eyes and says with a tender sigh, "Ah, yes.  And then there's love."  Ever since that day Eugene has found a way to bring up love in our discussions, and then he will usually throw in a comment about his wife and romance with that same starry look in his eyes.  It's just so cute how old and romantic this guy is!

Speaking of love, one of the coolest places I've been to so far in Moscow is the Novodevichy Convent.  The neighboring pond and surrounding grounds are famous for inspiring a famous scene in Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina where Levin is ice skating on the frozen pond during winter and sees Kitty and falls in love with her all over again.  Tolstoy writes the following heart-throbbing words, "He knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized on his heart. . . . There was apparently nothing striking either in her dress or her attitude. But for Levin she was as easy to find in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was made bright by her. She was the smile that shed light on all round her."

Statue of the tsar who liberated
the Russian peasants

How can you read those words and not swoon?  And then to go to that very pond and think about love and romance is enough turn anyone into a romantic!  So far I've had most of my adventures in Moscow with the other bros in my group, but I'm realizing more and more that Moscow is a city built for couples.  This is definitely a city I would like to revisit one day with a sweetheart!

The famous Kremlin

I had so much fun on this morning run around Moscow University!

Behold the famous pond where Levin and Tolstoy ice skated

Ah, love . . .

The Novodevichy Convent

On Red Square wearing my red communist pants

At the mausoleum of Lenin

At Gum, the luxurious shopping center on Red Square; a veritable temple of consumerism

At the famous Tretyakov Gallery, one of the most
famous museums of Russian art

The Smell of Moscow

Of the five senses, I think smell is the one with the best memory.  At least that's what my first thought was after taking a deep breath of air outside the Moscow airport.  The air has a smoky quality that seems to impart just enough second hand nicotine to make you feel a buzz.  Or maybe I'm just feeling giddy about returning to Eastern Europe after coming home from a mission in Ukraine three years ago.  Whatever the case, that smell has triggered a flood of beautiful memories, and as the day has unfolded I've been relishing this sensory overload while getting settled in Moscow.

Several people have asked, "How does it feel going back?"

Well, anticipating this trip has been a lot like what Katniss Everdeen must have felt when she was chosen yet again to compete in the Hunger Games.  Although I deeply loved my time as a missionary, those who have served can attest to how brutal some parts of a mission can be.  And so I've been trying to shake this "Quarter Quell" mentality that's been giving me a hard time dissociating life as a missionary in Eastern Europe and what life will be like as a civilian here.  But this struggle is quickly being swallowed up by how much I love Russians.

Thanks to Dasha, Yulia, and Yulduz (not pictured) for helping me get settle in Moscow.

In the coming months, I'll probably talk a lot about how much I love Russians and their beautiful culture.  And I'll start with this:

A taxi driver named Igor was holding up a sign at the airport with "Carroll" written on it, so I go and introduce myself.  After establishing that I'm the only Carroll that could possibly be in Moscow he kindly takes my baggage and shows me to the car.  He sits down, starts the engine, plugs in my destination into his GPS, and then says to me, "Hang on a sec, I'm gonna have a smoke."  And so right there by the side of the cab he quickly puffs through a cigarette before we set off.  The entire way to Moscow University he tells me absolutely everything I need to know about Moscow, about how he was born there, about how well his dacha is doing this year, and with a particular gleam in his eyes he tells me about how much he is looking forward to gathering mushrooms in the forest later in the season--I just love Russians!

Chlorophyll Wars

So you probably are aware of my indoor-gardening exploits.  I currently have  seven different kinds of herbs in pots, and I've come to regard each of them as a little pet I'm not supposed to have (pet's are against the rules at Campus Plaza).  I might even go so far as to regard my little pets as my children.  And like any proud parent I want everyone to see them and admire them.  So I put them all right up against my apartment's south-facing window for maximum exposure to sunlight and maximum exposure to passers-by.

I glow a little inside whenever someone comes into our apartment and praises my chlorophyllic kids.  They all say, "Oh, how cool!  What a good idea!"  And then they come closer to inspect them and immediately abandon all interest in my beautiful, refined, and elegant herb-children and begin gushing over Scott's redneck and slightly more tropical kids--a Venus fly trap, a sago palm, and a pineapple head.  Visitors just can't get enough of these hicks from the South. 

"Oooo!" they all say, "You have a Venus fly trap?"

"Um, yes that's a fly trap, and no, it's not mine.  It's Scott's.  But hey, check out my marjoram!  That's pretty cool, too.  Right?"

"And you have a  palm tree?" they always ask next.

"Um, that is also Scott's.  I guess it's pretty cool.  It's highly toxic and has been around since the time of the dinosaurs.  But take a look at these chives!  That is some crazy plant hair, ain't it?"

They completely ignore my charming little herbs and move on to Scott's pineapple top which he decapitated from a pineapple he got from the grocery store and is now trying to grow into a bush.

"How neat!  Does that really work?  Scott has such cool plants!"

Feeling defeated and a lot like the less popular dad in the neighborhood, I find myself finally agreeing with my guests.  If this is how I feel about my houseplants, I fear for the day when my future human children begin interacting with other's kids (especially Scott's :)

Below are five joyous and recent discoveries totally unrelated to parenting:

• You can tango to Coldplay's "Viva la Vida" and Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance."  

• It takes 47 Arizona oranges squeezed by hand (#nocollegekidownsajuicer) to produce one gallon of orange juice.

My fingers were so sore by the time I filled this up!

• A homemade match head rocket can shoot up to 40 ft.

• The best place to go swimming after three years of never wearing a swimsuit is natural hot springs that smell strongly of sulfur.

• And the secret to happiness is chocolate covered jumbo strawberries.

These are the hot springs up Spanish Fork Canyon. 

Aunt Bronwyn made the most delicious chocolate covered strawberries I've ever eaten! 

Thanks to Taylor for introducing me to Grant Thompson's
YouTube channel "The King of Random." If you ever want to see
amazing cool stuff you can do at home go check him out.

Aging Haircuts

I did it.  I finally did  it.  After almost three months of bed-head art I've donated 1.5 inches to Locks of Love and I just can't help getting a little emotional about it*.

At first, I loved my haircut.  "Sure, it's pretty short," I told myself, "but that's what I told the girl with the clippers--short."  I only started doubting myself after two days filled with the following conversation:

Fun with the comic strip setting on Photo-Booth

"Oh, Owen, did you get a haircut?" they ask with genuine surprise and feigned ignorance.

"Yeah, I did," I respond while reaching up and gently stroking my new hairdo.

And then they (usually girls) almost invariably ask in a lower-pitched voice, "Do you like it?" as if they were really asking, "On a scale of 1 to 10 how embarrassed are you to be out in public today?"

"Um, yes.  Maybe a 7 now--I mean (cough) it's pretty short, huh?"  I skeptically respond trying to reflect their level of disappointment in my haircut.

"Don't worry, it'll grow back in a couple weeks!"  They all reassure me.

And then there was the folk dance team social where two girls guessed my age at 25 and 26 years old. Their eyes got big when I told them I'm actually 21 years old.  I was younger than both of them!  In an attempt to boost my ego I said, "I know, it looks like I'm in the military, right?"

"No, not at all," says one girl, the other nodding her head in agreement, "You totally look like an older missionary."

I got home that night and gave my reflection in the mirror some serious thought.  Admittedly, I did look older.  Maybe even five years older.  And dag-nubbit I did have a missionary haircut, only I'm certain I never dared to cut my hair this short before, even on my mission.

So here's to looking older for two weeks!




*This part is completely fictional; Locks of Love requires a hair length of at least 10 inches in order to donate.  And I'm not actually overly emotional about it.

Possible the coolest FHE ever.  We took a tour of BYU's anechoic chamber deep beneath the Eyring Science Center.  99% of all noise is cancelled out in this room.

 The two pictures on the right are in a room that is the opposite of an anechoic chamber--a reverberation chamber!  Where sound is amplified and sticks around for eight seconds after it is made.

Abby and I took 7th place in a tango competition.

Vareniki stuffed with homemade sauerkraut (yeah, I can pickle now), and topped with homemade ajika sauce.

"So what are you guys gathered for?"
"Um, er, well, uh . . ."
"We're cousins!" says DaLynn

Frosting sugar cookies for FHE

Service project tying quilts for kids, and me eating seven slices of pizza

I kinda have a thing for plants. Starting with what's in my hand and going down and clockwise:  rosemary, peppermint, orange mint, oregano, chives, marjoram, and lemon balm.

Roman Forums and Famous CEOs

Every week at BYU thousands of students flock to the Marriott center to listen to inspiring gospel-messages usually prepared by university faculty members.  We call their speeches "devotionals."  And about once a month BYU shakes things up by inviting some noteworthy or socially distinguished individual to address the student body.  These individuals range in prominence from senators, to Pulitzer Prize winners, to CEOs of famous companies.  In the true spirit of antiquity BYU calls their speeches "forums." There's just nothing more Roman than asking your buddy in chemistry class, "Hey, are you going to the forum today?"  Well, this week's forum was not one to miss, because none other than the president of Disney and Pixar Animation Studios, Edwin Catmull, addressed us this week.

Ed's speech, entitled "The Creative Culture," told the student body by way of storytelling the recipe for creative success.  So from the man who brought us Toy Story and Frozen, here are a few of my forum favorites:

"Art is not about learning to draw or blend color but learning to see."

"We pay attention to power structure.  That kind of authority can screw up a room."

"If you aren't failing, then you aren't trying different things."

"Don't look back for excuses; look back for lessons."

"Ease isn't the goal; excellence is."

Ed also talked about how it is more important to ask forgiveness than permission, which is a bold philosophy my timid side has a hard time practicing.  But isn't that kind of boldness key in creativity?!  

And now, not necessarily related to anything typed above, but here are a few fun memories from this week:

A super-fun mission reunion.

Practicing clogging in my apartment while Scott was trying to take a nap :)

 Making sourdough pretzels for the first time and enjoying them with Stephen.

Running into Alison Lynford on campus after not seeing her for over three years!  And then posing with political buttons for a conservative youth group surveyor that caught us while we were catching up.

Operation: F.E.E.D.T.H.E.D.U.C.K.S.

You know what the trouble is with store-bought bread?  It takes forever to mold.  For instance, I left half a loaf sitting in my kitchen while I was away hiking and rappelling in the deserts of Arizona over Christmas break, and when I returned to Provo there wasn't a single speck of mold on my loaf.  Zip.  Nothing.  Not even a suggestively stale odor to recommend disposing of it.

 Most agree slow-molding bread attests to the wonders of modern food preservation, but all this lack-of-mold did was foil my month-old desire to feed bread to the freezing ducks at BYU's duck pond.  You see, I can't in good conscience feed bread that I paid good money for ($2.13 good to be exact) to lower aquatic life forms, which is why I was banking on my two-week absence to give the mold fairy enough time to visit my already month old loaf of bread.  Surely that would be enough time to render it unfit for human consumption.  Alas, the preservatives in the bread were too powerful, and I was forced to change tactics.

Operation:  F.E.E.D.T.H.E.D.U.C.K.S.

By virtue of the scientific method applied during a 7th grade biology project, I discovered that it takes about four to five days before homemade bread starts to mold.  Were it not for this experiment, I never would have known this statistic because homemade bread back home never lasted longer than a day or two before it was eagerly devoured.  So I baked two handsome looking loaves.  One for me, and the other a sacrificial loaf set apart for the sole purpose of growing blue and green spots.  Operation F.E.E.D.T.H.E.D.U.C.K.S was going splendidly until I found myself drizzling honey on the second heel of the the second loaf of bread before the five day mark.  I let out a regretful, yet simultaneously content sigh, and baked two more loaves of bread.  This time I made sure to let half of the second loaf go bad.  I just had to feed the ducks!!

And so today I've never been more pleased to discover gross blue and green spots decorating my bread.  Go Time.  And thus I was able to check off one of the less formidable items off my bucket list for this semester.

And here are a few more things I've been able to check off my bucket list:

Visiting Horseshoe Bend on the way home for Christmas break.  A nice break during an 11 hour discussion about quantum physics, relativity, and the merits of veganism vs. vegetarianism.

Rappelling in Bulldog Canyon. 

More rappelling.

My #1 running buddy, Taylor, and I on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. 

Running six miles uphill both ways :)

Snowshoeing around Mt. Timpanogos.

Eating brownies with Carolyn on her birthday after successfully summiting a small mountain on snow shoes.

King of the Mountain!