Apartment Living, Cold War Style

Roommate Number Four finally arrived last Tuesday. Marina had been on a cleaning binge for a few days, and she generally knows what's up- speaking the same language as the director of the university can come in handy- so we assumed that, over a week past her expected arrival date, our mysterious fourth roommate was on her way into town. Vague rumors (read: what I could get out of broken English conversations) implied, at different times, that she was Moldovan, that she was coming in January, that she was a boy and living elsewhere, that she was forty years old, that she was twenty years old, that she was imaginary, and that she was irrelevant because she couldn't get "papers." From Moldova.

So, at the point where we were under the assumption that she was 40, I was told that I needed to move everything out of my room, because it would be unfair to make an adult woman share a room. With Alex.

So I bitched, moaned, grouched, sulked, stomped my feet, and moved. 


the room I gave up- it was much cooler than it looks here.
A week later, Alex and I came home from work babbling in warp-speed English about something irrelevant, and Marina was sitting at the table with a girl we didn't know. (Marina has many more friends than we do- it's sort of the norm.) We both said hello to her- no response. I dropped my bag on the couch, and, yanking my boots off, casually asked the friend's name. The friend, I might mention, was growing more and more terrified-looking as Alex and I continued what was probably just one of the many pointless circular political debates we have. Hourly. So I asked her name, and she looked in confusion between Marina and I, at which point Marina quickly muttered a translation under her breath.
"Ah!" the friend smiled. "Efiadlf;ksdlkfs."
I glanced at Alex, who shrugged. "Um, I'm so sorry- could you repeat that?" I smiled warmly.
More glances, then friend repeated her name. I still didn't catch it, except that it may have started with a E. Ef. Ef-something. So I shrugged it off and returned to my debate with Alex, while we puttered around and got ready to make a grocery run. We were putting our coats on when Marina asked if we needed anything from the Armada- the place we were about to go. We explained that we were already heading there ourselves- with a long list, and we were more than willing to pick up whatever she needed. She smiled, and brokenly explained that she was showing the friend the path to the mall. Huh. I thought. It's really not all that cool...* why would you sightsee with a visiting friend, and show them a MALL? (pause.) Eh. Whatever. Russians.

So to avoid the awkwardness of dealing with this friend who obviously did not speak a single word of English ("hello" confused her, remember), Alex and I procrastinated just long enough to leave the apartment far enough apart the we wouldn't run into them on the way over to the Armada. On the way out, Alex mentioned something about "our new roommate." Uh, what? Of course, I was the only moron who didn't realize that this "friend" was actually the girl living with us for the next eight weeks.

And I didn't. Learn. Her name.

So we now refer to her as "M-dubs," because a) she is Moldovan, and b) she's always with Marina. So M(arina) and M(oldovan) = double M = Mdubs. Alex came up with it- I'm not sure if I want credit for that one.

Speaking of Marina, she's spoken maybe half a dozen words to us since the arrival of Mdubs. Mdubs speaks Russian and nothing else, as far as we can tell, and Marina is mothering her. And also has no reason to talk to us- she's got regular human contact with locals, and now a friend in the apartment. The result of this has been a rather rapid devolution from a harmonious, multicultural household to an apartment divided strictly along Cold War lines- Russians on one side, Americans on the other. We eat, sleep, work, talk, laugh, go out, come home- basically live- completely separately. In our one-bathroom, itty-bitty apartment. My one limited interaction with Mdubs directly involved her pointing at various hair dryers and then the wall, saying "Marina?"

No, Marina is not a hair dryer. I have no idea what you want. She was holding her own hair dryer, she didn't want to use someone else's, and I pointed out the outlet to use it. I even tried the Turkish standby- "Tamam, tamam." (alright, alright). No dice. About ten minutes later I gave up and just shrugged a lot.

And that's the extent of my attempts to negotiate with the Russians.







*Apparently the Armada is, in fact, the shit. Named the best mall in Europe in 2003, the entire thing is shaped like a giant ship**- with an anchor statue out front. Despite Ankara being landlocked, its name comes from the ancient Greek word for "anchor." Thus the theme.

**... Alex and I only realized it was shaped like a ship about 24 hours ago. After visiting it almost every day for a a month and a half. We're quick ones.