Virtual Explorers: Russian Nonfiction Writing Program Student Anthology - Class of Fall 2020

VIRTUAL EXPLORERS: A STUDENT ANTHOLOGY

Russian Nonfiction Writing Program: Class of Fall 2020 Instructors: Alisa Ganieva and Jen Percy Editor: Emily Buck

TABLE OF CONTENTS Preface ...........................................................................................................................................2 Introduction & Biographies ...........................................................................................................3 Prompt Number 1: Competing Memory/Uncertain Memory ........................................................5 •

Lisa BUKATINA ..................................................................................................................7

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Sanet DENIEVA .................................................................................................................8

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Manana LALAYAN .............................................................................................................9

Prompt Number 2: Object Lesson ..............................................................................................11 •

Lisa BUKATINA ................................................................................................................12

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Anastasiia FIRSOVA .........................................................................................................15

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Anastasia GLAZYRINA .....................................................................................................17

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Maria GUBIEVA ...............................................................................................................19

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Mary OGANISYAN ..........................................................................................................22

Prompt Number 3: A Found Essay ..............................................................................................24 •

Liza ZANOZINA ...............................................................................................................25

Prompt Number 4: Virtual Exploration ........................................................................................30 •

Fatima ALDAMOVA .........................................................................................................31

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Sanet DENIEVA ...............................................................................................................33

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Diana DRANISHNIKOVA .................................................................................................35

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Luiza GRIGORYAN...........................................................................................................36

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Artem KOTOV .................................................................................................................39

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Alyona NEFEDOVA .........................................................................................................41

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Margarita SAMOILOVA ...................................................................................................46

Prompt Number 5: A Completed Piece ......................................................................................47 •

Liubov KHOKHLOVA .......................................................................................................48

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Ilya KURSENKO ...............................................................................................................51

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Dasha NOVICHKOVA ......................................................................................................55

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Alexander TSIRYULSKY ....................................................................................................58

Acknowledgements .....................................................................................................................60

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EDITOR’S PREFACE This anthology collects the final projects of the Russian Nonfiction Class of Fall 2020.

Through a highly selective process, twenty-one college-age Russian students were chosen to participate in a course sponsored by the U.S. Embassy in Moscow and coordinated by the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. Undaunted by the global pandemic, these bright, young writers made time in their regular school semester to take part in six workshops over Zoom to learn about nonfiction writing from two superb practitioners of the craft—Alisa Ganieva from Moscow and Jen Percy from New York.

This course was designed to increase the literacy, understanding, and appreciation of nonfiction in a time when journalism and other forms of nonfiction are in danger of being either misused, falsified, or censored. In a world where a seemingly infinite amount of information is at our fingertips, how do we distinguish what is real, what is trustworthy from that which is merely arresting? How do we approach the challenges of research, bias, and, for that matter, the fallibility of memory? And what about biographies and history books and propaganda? What counts as nonfiction, and what rules does one follow writing it?

These are questions the students had to grapple with during this class—questions that we pose to the readers as well.

The writing in this anthology was lightly edited for grammar and spelling corrections, but remains largely untouched so as to preserve the picture of each student’s language capabilities, for many are non-native English speakers. Finally: a huge thank you to all the students who participated in the class, whether their work is in the anthology or not. We look forward to your future writing.

Emily Buck Program Assistant International Writing Program

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INTRODUCTION Our modern understanding of nonfiction occupies a dubious piece of real-estate, somewhere within and between the major genres of fiction, drama, and poetry, and given the identity-crisis embedded within its title (‘not-fiction’?), it is argued for and defined in a number of different ways. An easy answer to this is to always to say that nonfiction is “the truth,” but the only style of writing that even approaches the area code of this rather rigid definition is perhaps the cut-and-dry fact reportage of traditional newspaper journalism.

In this course, we hoped to shake up our collective understanding of the nonfiction genre. We introduced students to a range of traditional and experimental styles and voices, from travel writing to so-called gonzo journalism. Rather than expatiating on theoretical matters, we plunged into the practical application of the nonfiction realm, letting our daring students grasp various ways and forms of documenting subjective reality in a creative and artistic vein. The exercises and sketches presented in this collection are working impressions of what our students have been reading, discussing, and emulating during the course. They reflect their method of testing the literary devices and techniques common in nonfiction genres, as discovered in texts assigned to them for studying and scanning. We hope this class got them as excited as we are about the rich potential of nonfiction.

It was such an honor to work with this talented group of students. They were full of energy, insights, humor, in sum, they were brilliant. And, English not being their first language, they contrived to try and master many small tricks of describing, captivating, provoking, puzzling or amusing their readers with written words. We wish them all the best in this awesome venture.

Alisa Ganieva and Jen Percy

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INSTRUCTOR BIOGRAPHIES Alisa GANIEVA (Алиса Ганиева) is a Russian novelist, essayist, and media journalist; she

grew up in Dagestan, the setting of most of her fiction. In 2009, her Salam Dalgat! won Russia’s prestigious national Debut Prize; it was followed by The Mountain and the Wall (English translation 2015) and The Bride and Bridegroom (shortlisted for the 2015 Russian Booker; published in the US in 2018); the English translation of her most recent novel, Offended Sensibilities, is forthcoming in 2022. A repeat participant in various IWP residencies and events, she was a juror for the 2018 Neustadt International Prize for Literature. Her work has been translated into many languages and praised globally. She lives in Moscow, and is a literary critic for Nezavisimaya Gazeta.

Jennifer PERCY, the author of Demon Camp: A Soldier’s Exorcism (2014), is a widely

traveled and published journalist and magazine writer. Her work has appeared in the Oxford American, Harper’s, The New Republic and the New York Times Magazine, among many other places; her honors include a NEA grant, a Pushcart, the National Magazine Award for Feature Writing and, in 2020, the Dart Award for Excellence in Reporting on Trauma. She teaches writing at Columbia University.

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Prompt Number 1 Option #1 Competing memory Please write about a personal memory from your own perspective and then again from competing perspectives. To do this, you should consider moments and experiences when you were not alone. You might want to interview a friend or family member to see how they remember the situation differently.

Option #2 Uncertain memory Explore a memory that feels uncertain or that is filled with gaps. It can be a memory about anything, perhaps a difficult or traumatic event, but it doesn’t need to be. Are there moments you are uncertain about? Think about showing “your mind on the page.” Do your thoughts interrupt themselves?

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Lisa Bukatina Probably there hasn’t yet been a day, or a few, when I didn’t look back on the event that parted my life into before and after. All I remember was being mad at my mom for not letting me stay after classes at my grandma’s place – I had no idea why. It felt as if she were jealous that I spent more time with my granny. Only after a few months would I regret thinking that way. I don’t remember my mood in the first part of the day, but I clearly remember me coming home to find my granny there (yay!) – I guess she wasn’t a frequent visitor, and each time she used to come over, I would get all excited and make a commotion over her.

I reached out to ring a bell, not thinking about anything at all – lucky girl. And there she was, my dear granny, standing in front of me with her eyes empty and her shoulders drooping. Not even the slightest smile flickered across her face – why so? I thought to myself and couldn’t find a decent answer. She wasn’t mad at me, was she? Was she tired of me, was I annoying her? I stood in the doorway, trying to force a smile, hoping she would smile back at me – she didn’t. That was new. I felt somewhat guilty. My granny has always been the sweetest person I’ve ever met – she could not for the life of her be mad at her little granddaughter. Tired? Transfixed, she kept standing in front of me, still silent. That was when the real confusion crept over me.

I tried my best not to show that my mind was in turmoil. And so did she. The next thing I know – or I think I know – was trying to call my mom, but there was no answer.

There were only two of us in the apartment, and for some reason, I felt lonely. My voice was echoing around the rooms because we’ve just moved in and the place was practically empty. “When’s mom coming? – She isn’t.” It echoed back into me. Granny came over not to see me, to spend more time with me. She came to substitute my mom for some time (that sounds awful, no one can be a substitution good enough), while she was away (where?). Little did I know that “for some time” would turn into years. Years of confusion and dismay.

When something out of place happens, especially if it’s something grievous (at that point I had no idea it would be so), you try your best to pretend as if nothing had happened, or that everything will soon be alright again – though rarely it actually does get better. Fake it ‘till you make it, right? That is what I started doing, I think. I was pretending 6

that being admitted to the hospital wasn’t that serious. Actually, I don’t even remember how I learned that mom was in the hospital. Was it dad who told me? Was it my granny who finally broke the silence and explained the situation in detail to me? No, I wasn’t told anything in detail actually – I had to find the information myself by pieces. Some sort of a lame detective I was.

Dad didn’t come home that day either. Well, he did, but it was just for a few moments. You know, the interesting thing is that before that day we weren’t really close – in fact, we were almost like strangers. I didn’t bother asking him what all the fuss was about, though he probably was the only person who could give a proper answer – he wouldn’t, no, not really, he wouldn’t put it all on me, he was to keep things secret from me.

And he did that job amazingly well. Who even hides the reason a person went to the hospital?

I don’t remember the rest of my day. Was I busy with homework? Was I nervous?

Did I see something coming? Did I feel it? Did I really go to sleep having no idea that my mom was in a coma? It sounds absurd in hindsight. Knowing all the minor details of that fatal day now, I still can’t fully recollect it in my mind. It’s all blurry and gray, and miserable.

There is this pity, anguish, and confusion that I wish to never go back to. There had been that uncertainty that took six months to settle. Or maybe it hasn’t gone now either?

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Sanet Denieva It happened at school (or was it at kindergarten?) when I had a friend who had never met me before. We used to hang out a lot together, laugh, and he used to call me his friend.

His name was… well, what was his name? Did I really know him? Or did he know me? I certainly remember his appearance, his big ears I used to pull, slim lips and eyes of a badger, but when I said hello to him, surrounded by his friends who were two years older, he ignored me and looked as if he saw me for the first time. Was his name Slava? I think so…

It was hard to understand then and it is still hard. I remember the time we played together, we had beds next to each other when we were in kindergarten, but I absolutely forgot when it happened (and did it ever happen?) That day, though, affected me like a bucket of cold water that literally burned my skin. I said hello, pulled his ear again, and he, looking with disgust or whatever this emotion was, said who was I. Who was I! I was mad, that was I! Don’t you remember me? Don’t you know me? I said my name, reminded him of this unnecessary detail like my name, but he still didn't remember anything. What a dumb boy.

I left without saying anything. Want to mock me in front of your friends? Fine! Choke on, Slava, or whoever you are!

The next day I realized it was not him. I never knew this boy, neither his name. Why did I remember his face? Looking at him in the halls, I thought “this is exactly the Slava I know” but he was not. I definitely remember I had such a friend with this name, we had beds next to each other and nurses scolded us, because instead of sleeping, we laughed and chatted, and this impostor Slava turned out to be a different boy. It's been about 10 (maybe more) years, but I still don't understand what it was. Who it was. The only thing I was sure of was this: how could this “Slava” play in the same band and then be two years older than me?

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Manana Lalayan I remember its grace to this very day. The image is vague, quite frankly, but it still somehow finds its way back to the surface of my mind (as if it holds a particular importance of which I’m not aware of). There’s indeed something fascinating in the ability of one’s mind to select and safeguard specific memories out of thousands. So many countless memories, so many exciting adventures full of vivid emotions, yet they oftentimes fade (or even completely disappear) in the dark and mysterious place that is the unconsciousness.

I’ve seen it, or rather I think I’ve seen it — sometimes I doubt that it actually happened.

Was it an incredibly realistic dream or a dream-like reality? There’s a difference, isn’t there?

At this point, I’m confident of only one thing — that it’s one of those rare memories that you can’t seem to grasp fully, no matter how desperately you try. As if it’s only within arm’s reach yet also miles and miles away, buried in thick waves of fog and wall of rain. But it’s there, and you know that, it’s just your mind attempting to deceive you. You must be very confused right now, forgive me, — I am too. Confusion is inevitable when the tricks of the mind are involved. Perhaps that’s the reason why whenever I try to recollect all the shattered bits of this memory, I'm continuously faced with failure. But in any case, the biggest and brightest piece is always the image of the large and rich red fruits on the tree.

It was the top of a pomegranate tree, that I ’m sure of; the rest seems like a blur. Before that, I have never seen a pomegranate tree in my life. Before that, I have never even thought about how pomegranates grow. Moreover, I’ve most certainly didn’t expect to see such a tree on a sunny summer day on my way to the shop. So naturally, curiosity took over me, and I had to take a closer look. I stopped and gazed at it through a small hole in a wooden fence for a minute or two — or was it only a few seconds? was there even a fence?

Nevermind. The view that opened before my eyes (or should I say my eye) was beyond stunning, and a complete astonishment struck the twelve-year-old me after seeing the glorious tree with lots of big red fruits tempting to pick them. The next day I was certain that it was merely an illusion, so I went to make sure my enchanting tree was still there. And it was. Although you can’t trust me - maybe it was my mind misleading me yet again.

You might think that there’s nothing special about seeing a pomegranate tree, it’s just a tree, after all. And I would entirely agree with you. It’s still uncertain to me why I always go back to this memory — it doesn’t have a unique value (at least I think so) — it merely exists in the depths of my mind. However, what’s more bewildering is that this memory brings a 9

slight but warm smile to my face every time. For all I know, it might have been just a fantasy.

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Prompt Number 2 Option #1 Object Lesson: use “My Mustache, Myself” as a guide Think about an object (or personal style choice) that you could use to help tell a story about yourself. Perhaps there is a piece of clothing that has an interesting history and might reveal something about your dreams or anxieties. You want to tell the story of the object, to help you tell another more personal story. Perhaps you want to write about your shoes, your hair, a backpack, a trinket, jewelry—whatever it is—try to use this item tell a second, more personal story.

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It’s In My Hair Lisa Bukatina On pondering for quite some time whether there was something in my appearance that stood out, something that was special about the way I looked (and there definitely had to be a hidden meaning behind that thing), I came to the realization that I am as ordinary as can be when it comes to looks. There is not a single thing in my wardrobe that carries an interesting story, – and even if it does, I don’t give it much thought. Why would I, right?

So, there I was, frantically searching in my mind for that special something that would make sense – why I always chose to wear jeans instead of dresses, or why I couldn’t go out without putting a ring on both my middle fingers, or why I always felt the need to wear necklaces, or why I scarcely put any makeup on my face, or why… I was the way I was.

It was at that moment that it suddenly hit me – maybe the mere fact of not having anything prominent to associate myself with was my peculiarity.

Looking at myself with that perspective in mind actually did help me a lot to find something that mattered to me about my looks, and which also could tell a story about me.

It is the way I wear my hair. But what can possibly be special about that? Well, it is natural that it plays a huge role in the way other people perceive us based on how our hair looks.

Being a girl with quite long hair, I was always expected to wear it down. “Why wouldn’t you? It is feminine, and you look more beautiful that way anyway,” said everybody even when it was none of their business. Partly, they were right – I do look more attractive with my hair down, and probably that is why there hasn’t been a single picture of me with a bun or a ponytail for a very long time.

The problem is that despite the fact that I like my appearance better that way, I don’t feel like myself when my hair is hanging loose. I always feel as if I were trying to impress somebody, and as if I were conforming to society for people to see a desirable picture of me on the daily. And, frankly speaking, that is the last thing I would want to do.

There is something about it that I just can’t take myself seriously that way. I like the way it looks, but not the way it feels. That is why you can almost always see me wearing a bun, especially when I have work to do. It is not only about the convenience (but surely it is important too), but more about the self-image that I created in my head a long time ago.

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Appearance as it is takes a backseat to something more significant when I wear my hair up.

I am my true self, even though it might sound odd. I am not bothered by the looks and fully focused on the things around me. That way, I am self-disciplined, collected, and somewhat modest.

It might come out strange when I say it, maybe even stranger than I think it will, but I feel as if I am two different people depending on how I choose to wear my hair. Down – I fit in in the concept of a “cool” girl, I am confident, outgoing, and – let’s face it – maybe even a little bit arrogant. I perceive my long hair as some kind of shield that hides my imperfections and protects me from the outer world in the form of judgment. Though, in fact, it doesn’t. It just somehow deflects unnecessary attention from my face, but the interesting thing is that I am not that self-conscious about it, rather I’m quite content with the way I look. Why try to cover something you are not ashamed of? Sadly, that is the question I still was not able to answer for myself.

Up – I am who I really am: simple, open, authentic, genuine, honest with myself and others, but for some reason vulnerable. Vulnerable as if I’m making it easier for others to hurt me if I don’t look the way they want me to. The truth is, I put down my walls if I put up my hair around you. If I choose comfort over producing a favorable impression on you, congratulations. When it’s up, I know my mind is focused on the right things. I know that there are no distractions for me – I don’t have to check whether my hair looks just the way I want it. I know it does, though it might look a bit plain. But aren’t I, myself, plain?

Suddenly, there is freedom, there is credibility to me, there is transparency. My poise is not achingly forced anymore.

At times I feel like I am making all of this up, trying to find this secret meaning, the nonexistent undertone of things. Isn’t it absurd that if you think a little bit too much about something you got so used to, you will discover that everything is not as simple as it seems? You will notice certain patterns, the obscure ones, which turn out to be a reflection of the past events that shaped you into who you are now. Maybe it was a childhood memory that caused it, or somebody’s words, or the mirroring mechanism that you just can’t suppress in yourself. It could be anything actually, yet it remains the case. You find yourself subconsciously doing something over and over, without much thought, when in fact you are just projecting your past experience and your thoughts onto your appearance and the little things about it.

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And even though it is not that deep after all, every time I take off the hairband in public – whether it is to take a picture or before meeting someone new, I stop and ask myself, “Who are you trying to impress, really?”

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Photography Anastasiia Firsova When film was expensive and precious, we were allowed to take just one shot, which had to be perfect. Holding a camera for the first time felt so empowering! I was to decide which moment deserved to be captured forever. Years later I read “The Bridges of Madison County”, where Robert Kincaid explained that photography is about light. It’s not the moment it captures, but lights. I believe he meant sun rays, but to me photography was always about light within. As if there is a sparkle - or a fireplace - in every person. And as the shutter closes, this light appears on a small digital screen, a bit dulled by imperfections of technology (which was in a way fixed in life photos).

I carried my camera all around America. Since the day I bought it on a Black Friday sale, I did not miss a day of taking pictures. They were not limited as in my childhood, so I was experimenting, going wild and then cleaning up whatever I did not like anymore.

Over 6000 pictures stored on 3 memory cards in a small camera bag. They were so dear to me that I never showed them to anyone. And it did not come to my mind to make copies or to print pictures out. It was an extension of my memory, my own island of light through which I surfed on a wave of nostalgia.

Until the day I got relaxed and almost happy again, left the bag inside my backpack in a car only to come back in an hour and see that everything is gone. Like that day in San Fran, but with the camera being taken as well.

I felt numb. Days and people long time ago vanished from my life were almost gone from my memory. I lost myself once when I had to leave the place of my dreams, and then I lost my dreams of that place.

The journey was 4 years long and 6 thousand captured lights big, changes were inexplicable. Still, there was a very special pain which hit me when I lost the camera.

Hundreds of people go to the same places and take the same pictures. Every person is captured on photos of many someone’s cameras throughout life. There is a difference 15

between those pictures and photos we take with our own hands. The camera lens does not only gaze on what’s in front of it, it is retrospective to the same extend. In every picture we take, there is us on the other side.

I can go back to Missoula or Vegas, I can take as many pictures as I please. But there is no transport which can take me to who I was back then. That little teen on journey to adulthood! When the camera was taken, I knew, that this journey was over.; and the pain of transformation came to its end.

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My Hair Anastasia Glazyrina When I see somebody for the first time, the first thing I look at is the persons’ hair. How well it looks, what is the haircut, how well it fits into his or her personal style. As for me, I have long blond hair which I try to maintain in the best possible condition. I did this routine so many times in my life: brush it, style it, squeeze out different hair products onto them: shampoos, conditioners, oils to name a few. And if you have long hair, you know, it demands a lot of hard work just that it looks good.

It was about six years ago, when I got tired of doing this hair routine, and decided to cut my hair shorter: shoulder-length haircut versus loin-length hair I had had before. There were few people that missed this fact. But for the most part it hit like a bombshell, probably, due to the fact that it was the first time I cut my hair that short. The most popular question was: “Why did you do that? You had such a beautiful hair”. The statement was meant to be a compliment for my hair, I guess. But for me, it sounded more like “You made a HUUUGE mistake!” A few girls even said that it was brave to cut such long hair and that they wouldn't have had courage to do that. Courage? Courage for me is about leading men into battle, conquering the mountains or risking in business. Why to do such a small thing, to cut hair short, we need courage?

There are strong stereotypes about femininity which is associated with long hair, curvy and hairless body, soft features, being always calm and gentle, wearing skirts and dresses.

Every girl some-when doubts her femininity because she obviously doesn't fit all the criteria. And more precisely I don't fit all the criteria of femininity that society tries to impose on women. When I was a teenager, I thought I had something of a boyish-like behavior. I loved doing sports, all of them, from playing basketball to snowboarding to swimming. I loved to compete, not only with other girls but with boys, too. I tried to be a leader. I always thought of myself that I am “not like other girls” type because of the necessity to fit all the “girly” standards which I tried to distance from. But when I look back now, I think I was a pretty normal girl just being more active than others and having good relations with other people (not to mention that pants suited my lifestyle better than skirts).

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The things, that I regret the most in my teenage years, were distancing from other girls and thinking that something was wrong with me. I wish somebody was there to say: “It's okay to be who you are and there’s no need to comply to all the mythical standards or feel bad that you cannot meet these expectations!”

When I am looking at somebody's hair, I think more of what this haircut can tell me about the personality, way of life, sometimes even person’s values, rather than whether it fits a certain stereotypical image of male or female.

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Maria Gubieva Did you ever notice that your body is speaking with you? It always seems weird and sometimes happens in wrong time. Imagine you are writing an article, talking with colleagues or friends, and your body is telling you that it’s tired, it wants to lie down, or by contrast – it needs more movement.

Do you ever pay attention to this voice? Come on, you are so busy with everyday life, you work a lot, you go to the gym regularly or learn languages. And then one obscure (yours??) body starts to disturb you out of a sudden. Annoying, right?

I think we don’t like when our bodies speak with us. Sure, we need the body to move, to go to the places we need, to eat, to enjoy life and many pleasant things. But no, please, no interruption. Just do your thing, okay? We don’t have time on those conversations.

You know, sometimes you don’t like your body. Well, you think it’s too fat or too skinny, flabby or clumsy. Almost everyone has complaints about their body, almost everyone wants to change this or that. Generally, blaming your body is kinda fashionable.

Me too. I will start from the beginning. I have big nose. Big caucasian nose. In the place where I came from big nose is a big honor. Your nose says a lot about your roots and family. Your nose – your legacy. That’s what adults think while girls want to be beautiful and are bemoaning their noses.

I was hating my nose for a long time. While I was studying at school and was surrounded by my narrow-minded classmates (as I understood later), I was suffering from the shape of my nose a lot. My classmates never bullied me that much, just were telling jokes which I hated with all my heart. So sometimes this voice could say something to me, but I always tried not to listen.

«You don’t love me truly. You think I am bulky and ugly. You could get your hair done, you could do make-up for eyes, lips and cheeks. But you could not decorate me in anyway. I had no choice except being whom I was. Ugly for you».

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No, I am just imagining it. My nose cannot speak with me, I am imagining it. Look at the mirror, see the nose and be cam – you’re still bad.

We are sitting at school, we have English class, I felt in love for the first time into my classmate (of course, he is tall and smart) and I am so ashamed that I have such a big nose.

I am trying not to turn my side on, although it’s almost impossible – he is sitting on my right.

«Why are you ashamed of me? Why you always dreaming about changing me? I know you talked to your friends about the ways you can do it. You think it doesn’t hurt me?»

Is it weird that this voice exists in my head? Okay, though. My classmate will never notice me in anyway. With such a nose, I can only perform in a circus.

It’s my seventeenth birthday. Very nice day. We gathered after school with my friends, were eating pizza, talking, listening to music and laughing a lot. At this exactly moment I should be one hundred percent happy, but my friend decided to take a photo as a keepsake.

Panic. I didn’t want to spoil my memories about such a wonderful day with my huge nose on half of the photo. I am trying to hide the nose with anything – my friends, jacket, hairs.

«Of course, you do it again. Of course, you hide me on all the photos by your hands and hairs – of course, they are much prettier than me. But I am also a part of you, and have the same value» I am twenty years old and I am studying in university. I moved to a big city, I am an adult person, I am starting my career in an advertisement agency. I have my whole life apart, so many interesting things are waiting for me, my life is going to be extraordinary. But when someone starts to admire my appearance, or to say that I am beautiful and I have different face, I still hate it with all my heart.

I always blow it off when people say that my nose is outstanding and gorgeous. They try to convince me in my beauty, but, please, stop talking about my nose. Stop lying.

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«You see? Even when people were telling you that I am not ugly, that I look special and I am your ‘thing’, you never trusted. You thought they just try to be polite. You didn’t trust even yourself, when sometimes you had thoughts that I am not so bad and you look cute with me. We can suffer long time like this without accepting each other» I hate this voice in my head! What you need even? In fact, deep inside I know what it needs. It needs acceptance. Of me, my body and my appearance. Of my nose, after all! It just starts with nose, but goes so far and deep...

I am 22. I am graduating the university, I am working as an executive editor in the magazine I loved from 16 years old. I am starting to be self-confident, I start to understand the value of myself. I start to believe that my nose – is my thing, and everything I have is special.

«Thanks god, you grew older. Thanks god, you started to love yourself the way you are.

You started to make jokes about me, kind jokes with friends which you were not ashamed of. These jokes did not hurt. They were full of acceptance and – I even can say it – love.

You started to speak about me easily, you could laugh about me, you even started to like when your friends were talking about me. You started to believe people when they were saying that I am extraordinary and beautiful» Now we are friends with this inner voice. I should say, it feels much better than when we were enemies. Was it the voice of my nose? Probably. But I think it was me – the one that I always wanted to become.

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Mary Oganisyan One summer, a couple of years ago, I was staying at my grandma’s small apartment. She lives alone in a very beautiful city, which is very far away from the place I do. That summer was special for me as I was about to start a wholly new stage of my life. I had many crucial decisions to make and to support me, my wonderful grandmother gave me a little present a ring. It was silver, had a dark grey stone framed with a floral pattern. It was in an oldfashioned style, such as had been worn in her youth. Instantly, it became one of the most valuable pieces that I’ve ever owned. Not because it was expensive - it wasn’t. But because it was given by a very special person in a very special city.

That ring became a symbol of my connection to the place very close to my heart.

Although she gave it to me to make me feel better, this ring only added to my doubts and hesitation. The thing was that I immensely wanted to move to live with my grandmother and go to University there, but I could not decide on such a step. I had a stable life built at home. I had friends, school, and parents after all, whom I would only be able to see once a year if I moved. Leave everything and go a few thousand kilometres away, where I knew almost no one and could not find a suitable University or a job. It sounded crazy; no one understood me. But my heart demanded this city as it gave me so much inspiration. Being there, I felt that I was able to create something extraordinary, through which I could express myself. It seemed to me that this city could help me to direct all my potential to something genuinely close to me. Something that I truly liked. And at home, there were just that grey sky and daily routine waiting for me: the studies that I didn't like and people that I was already tired of.

Stability or Inspiration? The routine or the ring?

And I chickened out.

Today when I analyse the reasons for my decision to stay under a grey sky in a grey city, I understand that that was only because of fear. Now I realise that I’m not the only one.

Many people choose firmness and consistency over their real desires and dreams. We 22

don't quit a job we hate, divorce abusers, move out, or try out a new profession. We tolerate it. We only tolerate it to make sure that tomorrow will be the same as today. It is better to be not entirely happy now than to doubt the future.

We put up with pain because we are afraid of change.

I lost that ring. Literally the same day I bought a ticket back home. It turns out I left everything in that city: my grandmother, her gift, and all of me.

I lost myself because of fear.

We lose our true selves because of fear.

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Prompt Number 3 Write a “found” essay – an essay constructed from collected, real-world phrases. What things in the world can you find that would make a found essay? Maybe signs/billboards on the road? Maybe beer advertisements?

Think about the names of songs, messages on church boards, old postcards, political campaigns, etc. Don’t feel like you need to wander around outside in a pandemic to find things—feel free to search around the internet for ideas and material. Or find things in your home. This need not be long—just a paragraph to start is great.

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Delete Liza Zanozina When I open my laptop, the first thing I see is a small sticker covering my camera. ‘Hello,’ I say, and it smiles back at me as if saying ‘Do not fret! I will protect you’. I seem to believe it every time.

Funny how a simple sticker makes you feel safe and secure. A lot more than, let’s say, bars on your windows. We don’t even have them anymore, do we? Neither do we have security guards in the lobby. CCTV does just fine. But what if someone puts a pink smiley sticker on it, too?

I open my browser to check my email. Am I waiting for something important? Well, hard to say, but you never know, right? A rain of ads falls down on me. And even if there was something important, it would probably sink in the ocean of all these commercials. When did I even sign up for all of this?

I take a sip of my chamomile tea and read the first heading:

YOUR ACCESS TO THE FREE WEBINAR EXPIRES TODAY

Can’t they stop? I already have FOMO, so, please, people, don’t make it worse. Delete.

Another sip, another heading:

INTERESTED IN MEASURING ELECTRICAL PROPERTIES OF SOLUTIONS?

‘Hell, no,’ I say to myself wondering what I did wrong to receive such an awful email. Well, maybe someone who really, really hates me has put me on a subscription list? Delete.

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Then the next:

TODAY ONLY! 20% OFF ALL THE BOOKS

I’d buy all their books, I really would, if only I didn’t have piles of them waiting for me already. Do they happen to sell some extra time somewhere? I would really use some right now. Delete.

And so it goes.

5 MOST POPULAR THEATRE PERFORMANCES TO GO TO THIS HOLIDAY SEASON

Baby, it’s COVID outside. Haven’t they heard about it or something? Delete.

ENROLL ON ONE OF THIS WEEK’S TOP COURSES

I have already enrolled to do my masters and guess what? I question my sanity every day.

So why on Earth would I sign up for more torture? Delete.

YOU MADE DUO SAD. Sorry, Duo, not today. Delete.

THREE CHRISTMAS SPECIALS YOU’RE BOUND TO LOVE

Oh really? What if I don’t? Will you use my IP address to track me down? Delete.

TIME FOR TEA 26

Talking about tea… I need more chamomile. Delete.

LEARN HOW TO MANAGE FINANCES IN 2021

Come on, guys, it’s easy when you don’t have that much to manage. Delete.

PLEASE, RATE YOUR PURCHASE!

Oh, please, don’t remind me how much money I’ve spent on this. Oh, wait! Maybe I do need to learn how to manage finances? Where is the ‘undelete’ button? Delete.

YOU GOT AN EMAIL

An email about an email about an email? Seriously? Is that some sort of a matreshka or something? Delete.

I keep sipping chamomile. I keep reading the headings. I keep deleting the letters one by one.

FINAL HOURS! WILL YOU SAVE 50%?

Yeah, I sure will. I’ll actually save 100% just by not buying anything. See I don’t need to learn how to deal with money. I am already a guru. Delete.

LET’S TALK ABOUT CONTACT LENSES

Yeah, sure, such a topic. Delete.

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ELIZAVETA, HAVE YOU PROTECTED YOUR ONLINE DATA RECENTLY?

I actually have, thanks for asking. I’ve put a sticker on my web camera, what else do I need?

Delete.

TWO WEEKS LEFT

I stop here for a second. This one sounds a bit scary. What did they really mean? Two weeks left… Till what? End of the sale? End of the year? End of the world? Well, scary or not, I delete it anyways.

MINDFULNESS TIPS TO HELP KIDS THIS DECEMBER

I wonder if they are going to work with 23-year-old kids… Guess not. Delete.

GET FIT FOR 2021

Isn’t it a bit too late for that? I mean, there are like two weeks left till the end of the year.

Or even the world. And it’s gonna take me like two weeks to just mentally prepare to start working out again. Delete.

IT’S TIME TO TREAT YOURSELF

That’s the spirit! It sounds so much better than working out. What are they offering? Let’s see… Oh, it’s just Canva. Delete.

YOUR PERSONAL RECOMMENDATIONS

How do these guys know what I want when even I don’t know myself? Delete.

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WHO IS SANTA? I AM SANTA

Oh, yeah, if you are Santa, who am I then? Beyoncé? Delete.

TIME IS RUNNING OUT

I know, edX, I know, but what can I do? Only delete you, I guess. Delete.

BEST DECEMBER DEALS

I would take a look if it wasn’t a website selling medicine. Delete.

LATEST MARKET INSIGHTS

What’s that? Looks like I really don’t need finance courses, otherwise why would I be signed up for FOREX newsletter, right? Delete.

I meticulously go through the list deleting all the junk and sorting a few real emails that I got into the right folders until my mailbox is crystal clear. No unread messages. No trace of ads. No new notifications. Nothing.

For a moment, I feel proud of myself for defeating the unseen enemy. I feel powerful. I feel in control of my mailbox and, hence, my life. For a moment, I feel great and I am about to leave when the notification pops up: 5-HOURS ONLY! HURRY

And then, it starts all over again…

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Prompt Number 4 Write one or two paragraphs in which you are a virtual explorer. Take a moment to visit a place in the world that perhaps you have never seen (or maybe you have) and go to Google Maps satellite view and zoom into street view to have a look around. What do you see? Do you see people? Do you wonder what their lives are like? What do you imagine it like to be there? Try to be a virtual tourist.

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Fatima Aldamova I am sitting here as a traveler of Google Maps in Kolomensky Park. Absorbing everything I could notice, I will describe it in details to you. I hope my writing will not exhaust you.

The green surrounds me. I am drowning in grass and foliage. The yellow surrounds me. I am drowning in golden glory of dandelions. The white surrounds me. I am drowning in cherry petals. The clouds on sky look unnaturally puffy and shapeless with gaps of blue colour on some space. Trees are posing for the photo like awkward constantans of American Top Model in the first episodes of every season. I guess that comparison came into my mind because of the shape of tree trunks and my bright imagination. Yet it is not only about the nature, people are also here. Families. Friends. And. Loners. They all sitting under the tress enjoying the weather. I am really curious about what they are talking about.

What are the topics of their conversation? Maybe it is about their plans on weekends, or their awkward yet funny stories that happened with them at school, maybe it is all about irrelevant gossips, probably concerning their annoying boss. Who knows? There are millions of possibilities. That is what fascinates and intrigues me. But I will never know. I am framed in my own reality, which right now is virtual. But I completely forgot about the loners like me. It is more difficult to imagine what they are thinking about, what bothers them. It is interesting to guess whether they are worried they are in their own company or they truly enjoy it. I can imagine light wind against my face here while I am sitting and peeking at other people. It blows away the petals from the cherry trees that fall down on the ground. By the way, about the ground, the dandelions look bright. Probably if I were here for real, I would get dirty because of their flower juice. It could happen with a high percentage of possibility. My carelessness plays bad jokes on me, which is really upsetting.

I will get dirty almost wherever I can. From a bus to home. Anyway, I hope no one carelessly gets dandelion juice on their clothes. It would be really upsetting if that happened. Dandelion juice is almost impossible to wash off. I remember how my mother was scolding me when I was a little for staining my shirt. She was complaining that she is the only one who does the laundry and maybe I should do it too so I could understand how exhausting it is. In other words, after this I felt sorry. Yet I am still clumsy and sometimes do not even understand where I get my clothes dirty. At least, it happens not as often as it used to be. Anyway, I see that I got a little bit sidetrack from the current moment and stuck in my memory. Sorry for that digression.

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I completely forgot to mention. It is not my first time being in this place (however, it is the first time in a virtual form) Previously, I was here with my classmates from school. We had a photo shoot for our last photo book together. Almost graduates. The scene was almost the same as here. However, it was more chaotic than in this picture. My classmates really liked fooling around, some even annoyed me. Never really liked the collective of my class. I could interact and be patient with only several people. Until this day I think: was it me who was so immature and childish or them? I believe it was them. I don’t take any criticism. Period.

I am sure that there is flowery, bittersweet smell (like several years ago when I was there). The mixed fragrance of cherry flowers, grass and dandelions. At least, that how I remember it.

The whole atmosphere of the picture seems to be calm and relaxing, but every person has their own definition of peace so I will not claim it as a fact (this is why I used the word “seems”). It all appears as I am really not a reliable narrator (‘cause I am not). Our own perception, expectations and imagination play tricks on us. Don’t you think so?

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Sanet Denieva

Before my trip, I want to turn on the music. What should it be? Something energetic, something calm? Something neutral or with words? What if I just push the “shuffle” button and move on? Ok, I’ll do that. Not this, no, not this one either, no... Oh? What’s this?

WMD - BEFORE THE SUN So, here is the place. I look down my hands and see them covered with sparkles. Or is it sand? Glowing sand. Look up. Waves and cloudy sky. Isn’t that just swell? The wind blows to my face, breathing its fresh air and whispering soothing sounds. Looks like any place in Russia in winter, where the dark sky won’t show you the sun until you’re totally depressed with the season. Perpetual. I go down the rocks to touch the sand with my bare feet.

Anyway, I like this place. On this site there were a lot of random bright places, but I’ve chosen this one because of the relatable atmosphere. Closing my eyes I can touch the sky, the sand and the air.

WMD - HIBERNATION What are you whispering me? So calming... Wait, are you here? Can you tell me where to go? Show me the place. Your place.

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Interestingly, I’ve never been near the sea and have never smelt the breeze of the waves. I wonder how it feels to sit down on these rocks and… relax. Smell. See. Hear. Touch the ground. Taste the water. Be there. Show me your energy, tell me the stories.

Looking around and finding people is kind of strange. Here are some kids, I can hear their laugh. Here are also two man, starting at the sea as if they are sick and tired of it. Probably they saw this place so many times they are not interested in it anymore. They walk nearby, they don’t stop to feel it, they are a part of it that’s why they are special for me. How does it feel to live in such place where you hear the sound of the sea all the time?

I decide to listen to the sea once more before I go.

WMD - VICTORIA BEACH

The weather is bad. I mean, it’s really bad. You can actually feel the shiver going down your spine when you look at this cloudy sky. Personally, I’m sitting on the rocks, looking at the sea and abstracted from the hustle and bustle here right now. I don’t feel the shiver anymore. Only peace.

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Diana Dranishnikova I was walking through the streets of my favorite city in the most beloved country. Turkey welcomed me on a bright and warm Sunny day. I was lucky enough to get to this mysterious country in the summer and see all its elegance.

So many iridescent greenery, flowers of extraordinary beauty and such unimaginably pleasant smells can be found only in the gardens of Semiramis. On the quays, the sea breeze, like a light fluffy Cape, covered my shoulders, and the air that filled his lungs, calmed the madly tossing thoughts in his head. If you close your eyes and stretch out your hand, you can touch the Bosphorus bridge and stroke the sleepy waters.

The people I saw cheered me up with their friendly smiles, as if inviting me to visit.

Sometimes I thought I could even hear what they were talking about. And walking between the houses, I saw a boy who enthusiastically waved to someone.

Divine palaces, magnificent mosques, deafening bazaars - all this my eyes absorbed with wild delight under the exciting sauce of Turkish songs. So I decided to join the atmosphere of fascinating Istanbul even more. Many of them responded to my heart. I could not contain my emotions from this childish happiness and genuine joy.

Marble, white stone, laid out perfectly that even the most professional architect could not find fault with, precious stones, mosaics, wall paintings, carved patterns. But when you go inside a Palace or mosque, you get dizzy from the abundance of bright colors and unimaginable beauty. How? How was it all done? How can you not love? How do you not lose consciousness from what you see?

I imagined myself as the heroine of some mind-blowing series. Because it is simply impossible not to imagine.

As one poet said: "If you step out of my way, I will see Istanbul...". It is truly beautiful! This is a really hospitable city! And I promised that one day I would return there, feel the real smell of the sea, be able to really close my eyes, spin around in the square and see everything again but with my own eyes.

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Luiza Grigoryan Beijing. The place of my dreams. I wonder what it is like to wake up every day in a city populated by so many people. I do not like when China is associated exclusively with a place to gain money. How often people go there out of a desire to earn income and then return to their country to buy a house or a car, hoping that this will solve all their problems.

China is not just a place where you can build your career and find funding for it. China, and especially its center - Beijing - is the goal, the end of the road, and the beginning of a new journey. I've always wondered what it's like to visit a place where every foreigner is welcomed as a long-awaited guest. The people there are not only interested in European culture, they are people who deeply respect those who come to their country and honor their traditions and beliefs. And especially know the Chinese language.

An important role is played by the attitude of family members in the East to each other.

Family is valued above all else there. Older people are always treated with respect and awe. Especially the opinion of grandparents is valued above all else. In order to get married to your soulmate, it is not enough to just set a date for the wedding. An important step to securing the bond of marriage is the acquaintance of the second half and the family. If the parents do not approve of the candidate for the role of the husband or the bride, you can forget about the wedding. On the one hand, this seriousness of affairs may seem too strict. Since many families look more at the wallet of the chosen one more than on other aspects, but on the other hand, it is also important to learn the opinion of parents who understand life better than the younger generation. Among other things, marriage in the East is not a fleeting whim, but a conscious choice. If in the West the divorce rate exceeds 60 percent of marriage, then in the East there is a saying: "If you have married a dog, you follow a dog, if you married a chicken, you follow a chicken". of course, it is difficult to decide on marriage, knowing that it will be one for life. However, by raising children on quiet sayings, they better understand the seriousness of marriage. In addition to marriage, the issue of fatherlessness is also very important. I once told my Chinese friend that I grew up without a father. It was incomprehensible to her.

- How? – she asked.

- Like this. He just wasn't there for us.

- Well, why didn't you look for him?

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Later she explained that if a father leaves his family in China, not only his wife and children will go looking for him, but after such a disgrace the whole family will participate and bring him back to the house.

The Chinese are distinguished by their competitiveness. There are no people who are ready to leave important things for tomorrow. They are very focused and plan their day very meticulously. In their opinion, if you get up later than 7 o'clock, the day can already be considered lived in vain since time will not wait. Everything needs to be done on time.

Although they care about progress at work, they do not forget about eating. However, this pleasure can also be obtained strictly on schedule. The usual time for breakfast is 8 to 9 o'clock, for lunch exactly at noon. At this time, you can see many cafes and restaurants, where employees tend to go with the onset of a break. Dinner goes to 7 PM. however, I would not be surprised if there are people in the middle kingdom who do not follow the rules. It is believed that sleep also plays an important role. It affects the strength that everyone needs to cope with all the things planned for the day. And, as strange as it may sound, daytime sleep is not only something that is typical for children in the East. Sleeping in the daytime is the most common pastime for adults. Many offices and companies have special rooms where every employee can lie down and sleep. It is believed that it is daytime sleep that gives more energy. However, the main question remains why the Chinese are so ruthless about their whims. Their competitiveness knows no limits and the reason is that China has a very large population. People learn about the competition here from a young age. Even in school years, children feel the need to be the best. Mostly because of parents who do not feel sorry for their children, knowing what awaits them in adulthood.

I'm also struck by their architecture. What it looks like up close? Will I be able to experience all the wisdom that was learned here by Confucius and Lao Tzu? I hope so. One Chinese businessman, Jack Ma, once said: "Never give up. Today is hard, tomorrow will be worse, but the day after tomorrow will be sunshine." This phrase referred to those who give up on their way to a dream. This is a large part of the population of the planet earth. And I want to believe that these words of a person who has experienced many failures can inspire people to take risks, believe in their future, and do their job with a positive attitude. I was affected by this phrase. And if today I know about China only from friends and from the Internet, in the future I will know about the Celestial Empire in person.

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California Dreamin’ Artem Kotov Here I am sitting at home craving for travel and trying hard to cure my wanderlust. I open Google Earth and spin it like a real globe and point somewhere I haven’t been before.

Searching for this place is like reading Where’s Waldo? looking for something you are not even sure exists. Blurred images of streets, buildings, people. Where do I go next? Virtual traveling sounds easy but it’s not. Where am I googling (flying) to?

Thankfully, I don’t need to buy tickets and rent a hotel room. I catch a last-minute flight, hop on a virtual plane to LAX, and just in seconds, I’m there. I hop off and Lyft to Downtown LA. Where to next? Well, there are many options: Grand Park, Grand Central Market (I stop by for a second. Me want an ice-cream sandwich from McConnel’s Finest Ice Cream), Angels Flight (Who would say no to travel up and down the hillside in old-school train cars?), The Last Bookstore, Grammy Museum, MOCA. Oh, the places I’ll go!

It’s time for me to go explore other spots. Again, where to now? Hollywood! I take a bus (zoom out Google Earth) and head out (choose a destination first). I press the plus (zoom in) and I’m in Hollywood. First, I walk around Hollywood Blvd Walk of Fame, and then I have to see a famous Hollywood Sign (I’ve been there 16 years ago and it was under maintenance so I have to come back — I should have been there this May but coronavirus, you know, changed that). And my friend also lives nearby so I should probably stay over and call it a day.

Rise and shine (I tell myself). My day starts with a breakfast probably with Mexican vibes: Taco Bell or Chipotle? (Let me step out real quick. I’m going to go get me some tacos. Will be back soon!)

Oh, hey! So, I sit on a beach and eat tacos. The wind gently touches my hair, it’s still early and all I can hear is the song of seagulls. Everything is quiet now and you just enjoy the magnificent view. But suddenly the whole city awakens. I see people walk, laugh (I wonder what makes them laugh), run (where?) and talk loudly about anything and everything (indistinct chatter). I stand up and go where the wind blows. Suddenly I decide to buy tickets to Disneyland because why not? I wonder how things have changed since the last 39

time I’ve been there. And they have! Pixar pier, wow! Who would have thought it? My favorite Toy Story characters are right there (happy scream). I run and for the first time ever I don’t even need a FastPass because well it’s online. I don’t have to wait though (if only it was like that in reality!). I guess it will take me less than 5 minutes to explore everything.

Well, I was right. I’m ready to leave for one more spot on my itinerary — Griffith Observatory. I’m lucky it’s almost dark. I’ll get an Uber this time. I sit in the back of the car ready to go. I give the address to the driver and the trip begins (hope there won’t be any detours). A few more blocks and I’m there. Finally, I close the car door. I take the stairs and continue my journey. As I reach my final destination I feel happy I made it. Dreams do come true, don’t they? I can’t believe I see it with my eyes and not in La La Land. It’s dark now. Early stars start to appear in the night sky. I hum a song (City of Stars or Nightcall?).

It’s so nice. I wish I could stay there forever! (How does a moment last forever) It’s late at night and it’s time to go to bed and close all the tabs. The heart fills with hope.

And kiss goodnight. Life goes on. Dream now, Travel later.

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Alyona Nefedova "Night and silence given for ages, Rain or maybe it is snowing, Anyway, I am warmed up with endless hope, I see a city far away which doesn't exist..."

These words from Alexander Krivoshapko's song, performed by Igor Kornelyuk, were quite an accurate description of the city you see here just a few dozens of years ago. One could see this place with their eyes, but it didn't exist. There was no single hint of its presence on the maps, on the road signs, and on one of the Moscow railway station's (from which a train departed to this city) schedule. On the platform, the citizens somehow managed to recognize "their" people. From time to time, you could hear questions like “Are you going to the City? or "Are you from the City?" If in response you heard a confused “from which?” or received a puzzled stare, it meant that the person was not from there, from “a city which does not exist.”

Years passed; many things have changed. The city has regained its historical name -- it was at least the sixth switch in less than 70 years. Now it exists on maps and in navigators, we can hear about it from the TV screens and read about it on the Internet. Sarov -- the city which didn't exist -- is located in the Nizhny Novgorod region, at the intersection of two rivers, Satis and Sarovka, hidden from wondering eyes in the dense forests of the Mordovian nature reserve.

Nevertheless, for many people a virtual visit is still the only available option to get there, as Sarov, one of the main nuclear centers in Russia, remains being inaccessible for wondering eyes.

There are many closed cities in our country. But is there at least one similar to Sarov? I am not sure. Here, the past and the future merge together. On the one hand, it is a huge temple complex, which is now getting reconstructed, with a goal of returning it to the state in which it was several centuries ago; on the other hand, it is the Russian Federal Nuclear Center, which concentrates on one of the most advanced and secretive fields of science.

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According to the historical evidence, Serafim Sarovskiy, a very significant figure for orthodox Christians, lived and prayed in this city. Many people, both poor and rich, went to him for advice and healing. As legends go, even the tsar, Alexander the First, asked him for help.

There is also the famous Sarov Monastery, created by the decree of Peter the Great in 1706. The Monastery, just like the rest of the city, has its own secrets. A lot of people in Sarov, and I'm not an exception, have often heard from their grandparents stories about secret underground tunnels leading to the neighboring cities and connecting men and women convents. Moreover, Sarov's dungeons are not simply underground streets; they also contain a lot of monks' cells and even a church.

People still haven't found the main treasury of the monastery, which was supposed to be under the altar of the underground church. There is not much understanding of the origin of the caves either: some believe that they were created by nature; others - that they are the heritage of the times of the Mongol-Tatar Horde. The exploration of these underground caves is very complicated because, due to the specifics of the city, they were walled up at a certain point. Individual parts are still getting accidentally discovered during the construction work, and historians continue examining this subject. I have always dreamt to go down there myself, to solve one of the endless underground mysteries, or even just take part in the archaeological work. Maybe, if at some point I end up becoming a nuclear physicist and working in the city, this naive childhood dream - to see the Sarov dungeons will come true.

Talking about Sarov, one cannot but mention Near and Far Deserts. They are the largest natural monuments in the city, which beautifully combine untouched nature and places of worship associated with the name of Seraphim Sarovskiy. The forest that surrounds the Far Desert is a natural temple itself. It has a huge rock, on which Seraphim Sarovskiy prayed for a thousand nights in a row about the fate of Russia, talked with those who needed his advice and help, and interacted with wild animals, which were not afraid of him at all, that is why he is often portrayed next to a huge bear.

There is also an underground non-freezing spring, the water of which is considered healing.

Partially, it is attributed to the fact that having bathed in it, the Empress Alexandra Fedorovna was able to give birth to the long-awaited heir. Religious people from various 42

parts of the world hope to get there and to drink some water. Due to Sarov being a closed city, you will never find a large crowd of people near the spring. The nature is preserved in its original form, exactly as it was several hundreds of years ago. Here you can calmly sit, listen to the sound of the forest, the songs of the birds, and the murmur of water; feel this clean fresh air, thinking about various things. This was the place, where my mom tried to teach me to listen to myself - not an easy task for a small child, but gradually I learned this.

It wouldn't be quite right to talk about Sarov only as of the city of Seraphim Sarovskiy though, as it obviously wasn't the reason why at a certain point it disappeared from all of the maps and turned into one of the most secret places in the country -- kind of a ghost town.

After Bolsheviks coming to the power, the temples and the whole Monastery area were partially destroyed and redecorated into schools, theaters, etc. Right before the WWII, there was a machine-building plant in Sarov, at which at the end of 1942 they began to produce sets of parts for M-13 shells for "Katyusha" rockets. In 1946, a top-secret facility for the production of a new type of weapon was created on the basis of that plant, and the first Soviet atomic and hydrogen bombs, RDS-1 and RDS-6, subsequently appeared there.

Since this moment, the village of Sarov became closed for entry and exit. It disappeared from all maps and was renamed to the Moscow-Center 300 (Wikipedia knows all Sarov's names except for this one), later also becoming Gorkiy-130 (Nizhniy Novgorod, the biggest city nearby, was called Gorkiy at that point), Kremlyov, Arzamas-75, and Arzamas-16. As for the last two, Arzamas is the city which was relatively nearby (exactly 75 km), but 75 in the new Sarov’s name was just a random coincidence, which people were terrified by when it was noticed, and after 5 years of the city being called Arzamas-75, it turned into Arzamas16.

Here are a few facts I find interesting about the life in the city at those times.

- While now the citizens can exit their hometown almost whenever they want, back then, they also had to request a permission. To get to the food market right outside of the city you could wait for about a month.

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- Before the school excursions to other Russian cities, children were thoroughly instructed about what they were allowed to tell about the city; how they should have answered related questions, and whom to they could show their passports (not even to the general policemen).

- The first new name of the city, Moscow-Center 300, turned out to be very confusing. At this time, college graduates couldn't choose the place of work and were assigned one. So many times, after finding out that their distribution was Moscow-Center 300, people got very excited - everyone thought they were going to the capital of Russia or to its suburbs.

Not exactly the case.

- There still are debates on how much of communism was created in Russia. While it's generally a complicated matter, Sarov probably was one of a few places where communism has been (almost) a real thing. For instance, even in the times of crisis and a huge deficit of goods in most places, there was a great availability of them here.

Nowadays, the restrictions are eased, yet still no one can enter the city without a solid reason and approval of permission. Getting there is also an adventure on its own, as you can’t buy the train tickets to Sarov on the Internet. While a train going there exists, officially its route is Moscow-Bereschino: this is the one you buy tickets for, and only in the train itself, if you actually want to go to Sarov, you buy an extra ticket, directly from conductor.

You would never see a lot of people in the streets, whether on the edge or in the very center of the town. The mysterious atmosphere is fully present inside the barbed wire. It’s very quiet there. People suddenly appear on the horizon and quickly vanish into the air.

There is much less of a small talk going on than in an average Russian town of the same size. Citizens are used to the “don’t ask” culture. In the USSR time, even children often didn’t know what their parents did at their work.

Also, in Soviet times, there was no crime in Sarov. At all. The reason for that was not so much the general level of culture of a small scientific town, but rather the strictness of the laws. Everything was very simple - if you had any criminal record, even a small one, like getting into a drunk fight - the way back to the city back was prohibited for you. Such people either left for good or settled in the nearby villages. After perestroika, some of 44

them have returned to their permanent residence, but, despite this, the level of crime in the city is much lower than it is on average.

Eternal life and instant death – the two opposite sides are now intertwined in this city, creating the world's first scientific-spiritual center. Go there if you ever have a chance. And if no… go to google maps.

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Margarita Samoilova I don’t have to look up to see St Paul’s Cathedral. Swiping my finger across the touchpad is enough. St Paul’s. On your steps Bernard Shaw hid his Pygmalion and the flower girl from London rain. On your steps I was supposed to stand this summer. But suddenly everything has become virtual. Sometimes I seem to live inside a monitor. And now St Paul’s turned out to be built of pixels, not stone and instead of murmur of boisterous London streets I hear steady noise of my laptop’s processor. St Paul’s Cathedral has settled in the “new normality”. I want to peel the virtual shell off it. But all I can do now is animating the picture with my imagination: make the buses move and people talk and take photos. And imagining that I am being a part of the place, of the city.

It all seems to be paused for a while. A moment – and all the crowd start its everyday moving, and on the steps of St Paul’s there will be people again. Characters of a new play, though not Shaw’s but life’s.

Screenshot: Google Maps

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Prompt Number 5 Final Project: Please expand upon any of the writing exercises (either in-class exercises or homework assignments). Feel free to break away from the constraints of the original assignment and think about turning whatever you write into something you are passionate about. Try to think of it as a piece that can stand alone—a completed piece.

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Virtuality – a new reality or a new challenge Liubov Khokhlova “So, today I have dancing class, meeting with friends and I’m going to ballet to the Mariinsky Theatre. Great, I have time to order little presents to my friends,” – I think so and finally wake up. Reluctantly I leave a bed and switch on the laptop.

I choose the cutest socks and arrange delivery to addresses of my friends. Most of them now live in different cities, and that’s great that you can arrange delivery to any address.

Choreographer from Novosibirsk runs the dancing class. Before the beginning Olga asks whether we can hear and see her good. Today we learn Charleston – a very popular social dance of the first quarter of the XX century. At first we learn base steps – touch, kick, cow tail, and then unite them into whole improvisation. I feel very comfortable to dance at home: nobody looks at me askance because of my mistakes and I can not to learn that dance bunch I don’t like. And I can practice in pajama!

By the way, I go to the friend’s meeting in pajama too. Because I can afford it. We with my girls will think that it’s pajama party. Kate lives in Nijniy Novgorod and we with Vera – in Ivanovo. But Vera is in hospital now and it means that we can see all three only in Zoom.

We all need positive emotions at that strange time, that is why we will drink tea (Vera while can’t drink no one other drink yet and play the game “Guess the melody”. Kate prepares entertain program, and we choose the time for call that way to not cross with procedures.

At the evening a charming world of the Russian ballet is waiting for me. When I was a child I was engaged in dancing and my mom did not miss the opportunity to take me to some ballet and introduce me to the art. Today I will take her to the ballet. And it will not be just anywhere, but at the Mariinsky Theatre. The best dancers of that theatre will perform for us the Nutcracker ballet. Moreover it’s absolutely free! Great, that we can see translation from the Theatre at home.

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Quarantine brings all our active life into online space. Do sports at home. Watch online.

Staying apart is the best way to stay united. Keep your distance – stay together. Only together we make the difference. Safety first. Just don’t do it.

During the self-isolation we became those children who hear from parents: “Stop sitting in front of the screen, it will be better to go for a walk!” Our parents were confident that the real life is there. It is over the flats doors, in parks and in cinemas, at office or in trips. And we run outdoor to play snowball and to build castles when lessons were cancelled because of the frost. We stood in line before the cinema opened to see a new film. We considered the neighboring yard something like another country – the inviting and frightening simultaneously.

My generation grew up together with the technologies. My first pictures were black and white and were taken on Zenit. We listened to Prokofiev’s and Tchaikovsky’s music on vinyl records through a turntable at the Music lessons at primary school. I got my first mobile phone when I was at secondary school. When I went abroad for the first time I could get incoming calls only (and even with a special paid option), and posted pictures after a few days after returning...

Today I’m working in the IT-company, whose success depends from the Internet. As much better the mobile app we develop will work and as mush attractive the web-site we construct will look like as bigger income we will get. Internet gives me opportunity to earn money for bread. And for butter.

Sometime television became a new reality. The blue screen gathered the residents of the whole house around it. Then many families got the opportunity to have a TV. The ideal life on the other side of the screen attracted more and more. TV sets have appeared in kitchens, waiting rooms and even on the streets. Now we can observe similar processes with the Internet.

Children who were born in the 21st century cannot imagine their life without a Smartphone.

Recently I saw this picture ... I was in a shopping center and already was on my way home with purchases when I almost ran into a child. About three years old boy spanked his parents, trying to keep up with them. In his hands he had a phone with a cartoon. And the 49

boy was completely immersed in watching. Without stopping. His reality is there. He was born with it and will grow in it. Good or bad - time will tell and how he will dispose of the opportunities that have fallen on him.

I cannot say who this boy will become, because by the time he graduates from school, the world may completely change. But in any case, he will exist in two worlds - real and virtual.

He has a unique opportunity to use virtual reality for his own good - to learn something new, to receive information on a silver platter, to try himself in different roles. By the way, earlier this opportunity was given by in a children's camp. When you came to a camp where no one knew you, you could imagine yourself as someone you have never been. The humble quiet man became an activist, and the bully became a leader. If the test version did not justify itself, it was possible to return to the factory settings. And next time try something different. Today we can create an account on a social network and create a certain image for it. And then track how the community feels about that version of you.

You will say that there is a risk of losing yourself. But which of you can definitely say who you are? As a child you were one person, now you are another, and who will you be in 20 years? A year ago, we could go anywhere in the world, and now we are tied to one place.

But we resigned ourselves to the limitations and accepted it into our reality. Maybe our wholeness is in variability? In the ability to adapt to a changing world and to accept challenges, in the ability to find good in difficulties and move forward, no matter what?

Think about it.

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Aberdeen, Mississippi As a Very Special Place for a Young Russian Writer Ilya Kursenko One can truly wonder about how large our world is and how small a human being is in comparison to the almost infinite number of marvelous places to learn about along the undetermined years of life and luck to eventually go around and see the world, or at least some parts of it. Travelling has been a privilege. A matter of sufficient finances, courage, and time. Not every person could afford it centuries ago, not everyone can afford it now either. For the author of this text, the mere opportunity to travel outside of his hometown has been delivered by a play of destiny. At the age of 15 this author has proven the capacity to be a good ambassador of his home country, and a grateful guest in a country that once used to be a Cold War opponent. This author has been awarded the privilege to come to the United States as a student for a U.S. Department of State- funded exchange program, established by the Freedom Support Act in 1992, and titled ‘Future Leaders Exchange’ (FLEX).

The idea behind the program was that there was no place better or worse around the planet – it was simply just different. This was the mindset to carry throughout the whole year on an exchange, and it turned out to be a wonderful way of calibrating one’s attitude towards the truly different world around for all the years ahead. In this spirit, the American Councils themselves took care of placing the exchange student by an almost a lottery scheme: families across the country could pick any student that got awarded to go on an exchange. A student, then, could end up going to any of the 50 states of the federation.

This is precisely how this author got to come to live in Northeast Mississippi. This was also the moment when a life of the author could never simply be ordinary: the author would never again be like the people in his hometown. The author crossed the planet just to come to live in a very small southern town. This simply hardly happens to a tourist: this is the play of destiny.

What do you do to a Russian who comes from a post-Soviet industrial town, from all the cultural backgrounds, and ways of thinking and understanding the world, once this Russian puts on blue jeans, leather boots, a warm country jacket, and goes out into the front porch 51

of an antebellum gorgeous cottage, right a 5-minute walk away from the main street of Aberdeen – the town of historic glory and magnificence, once a major center of agricultural trade, and a native jewel of a larger crown of the American South and all the heritage it bears. This is simply mind-blowing, isn’t it: a Russian isn’t normally supposed to be here, and to be an insider into the lives of these people. A Russian isn’t someone you expect to walk into the beautiful antique-decorated bakery and have biscuits for breakfast. A Russian, a young man who carried a little suitcase of clothing but a large-size bag of memory and experience feels very special to be here. And very grateful to the destiny for allowing the opportunity to come precisely here.

Aberdeen, Mississippi. The whole experience of this author must be more provocative to the American citizens for they are introduced into the special ways of the South more than the Russians, or any other people who live in Europe or Asia, or Africa. This is what is hard for one’s mind, and precisely for the author’s: how small we are in this larger world composed of the small towns and communities, and billions of people with so many exciting life stories to share. However much one would have dreamed about knowing the whole world, there is a doubt that it could be impossible simply because a life was too fragile, and one could never know how many days, months, weeks, or years were there to still live and explore. However, there is this very special joy of returning to a place you have been to a significant amount of time ago. While writing this, the Southern sun is patting the author’s knees. The quiet, fresh air feels like paradise obtained again. Most importantly, six years after the last visit this place truly feels like home. It does so because it remembers you. It recalls you back when you were sixteen years old. It embraces you, and it smiles to have you back. And it feels very right to be back.

It feels special to call a place like Aberdeen, Mississippi your home. Because how could this ever possibly happen to the author: a Russian, born amidst a pine forest covered in snow for eight months, and lit by the sunshine for the rest four. A Russian who comes from a fine family, a Russian who was growing sitting on the laps of his grandparents, a Russian who was injected by the Russian cultural code in the most comprehensive nature. It felt as if that wasn’t enough for the author if he ended up being injected by a cultural code of a different side of the globe. How does it feel to be Slavic, and to have served in the country of origin’s military, and knowing that the author was first and foremost a Russian, but came to live in the United States at such an age when I was still flexible for adopting a new and very different culture as intelligently as if it was of his own? Not coming here to the United 52

States as a tourist to see the Empire State Building, take pictures, and live, but to come to stay with a family that received you as a son of their own for one year, to attend a high school here, to become a part of your town’s local community. How does that feel? Believe this author, this is the experience that comes back in thoughts, ideas, and memories every night and day.

What feelings does this experience provoke? Pride. Pride for being different, and special in this sense. Pride for fitting more than just one culture, philosophy, worldview into your own mind. Pride for being a Russian but understanding the United States or still not understanding the United States, but never seeing this country as a foreign – because it is not foreign to you. It is your home. It is a place where you were received with love, hospitality, and where your dreams were accepted and fulfilled. Home is where you are loved. The United States, in this respect, is forever a home, because there are people who love you, and you yourself love the people who live here. You value connections with them, and take good care of them by visiting, and participating in each other’s lives. This is the power of international exchanges, and the gift that everyone who eventually hold a sufficient amount of courage to step out of the own house’s door to walk into the world of unknown, suppressing all the fears and illusions about what one imagines about a place he or she has never been to, but growing on one’s faith to march along, and to bring nothing but love for people however different they turned out: how and when do you know who you are to meet. But it is worth of bringing love with you because love saves, and heals, and makes the whole world seem and be very different.

Aberdeen, Mississippi. My home. The antebellum South – the place the author has references to. The Southern cuisine, arts, accents, relationships, history, books, music, streets, fields, forests, roads – the author is part of all that too. This is pride in whoever shares it is the pride that empowers to live on in the own ways: different or similar from others, but own and unique. The author has a feeling that he never chose to come down here 6 years ago and start a whole new life down South. The author simply believes that it is worth to listen attentively to the signs of a destiny, and to the ways in which it rolls out.

With this careful listening it is important to walk into the doors that want you to open them, and to never bang voraciously into the doors that are locked: there is always a purpose to something, an inquisitive approach requires us to think so.

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This shall be the author’s destiny. The deep Southern origins almost as native as the Russian ones. Every experience is a gift. Any gift, however, requires a very grateful, respectful, and careful keeper. The gift to belong to the South certainly does require that.

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Phrases and events that shaped me.

Dasha Novichkova I came to visit my grandmother for the winter holidays. First of all, I began to dig into bookcases – I really wanted to take home the two-volume F.M. Dostoevsky "Brothers Karamazov." I tried to get two of my needs out of a bunch of books, and suddenly a letter fell out of the book "Name of the Rose." The letter which was very important to my grandmother.

My grandmother received the last letter from her grandfather, in which only a few lines were written: "Marinochka, I met one person here, he is very attentive, and he has kind, but very sad eyes. His eyes remind me of you and Nadia, as if you were holding hands in their reflection. How are you there? I really miss you. " Two weeks later, an official letter arrived he died of blood infection. The family did not believe it, but none of them dared to make a general judgment - it was too dangerous and suddenly they did not want to shake the tragic fate of the deceased.

That person with kind and sad eyes turned out to be the same man who survived 16 years of difficult trials, and now decided to write about it. And he also remembered Grandma's grandfather, but did not name the name in the story. But my grandmother found out from the description and cried. Or maybe she really wanted to find him in the book, understand what really happened to him.

This man did not like bright and magnificent speeches - his syllable was concise and brief.

He was not shy about heavy details, prickly remarks and unsightly descriptions. And because of his honesty, he became the new mouthpiece of those who suffered at that time - whether they themselves were in this earthly hell or their loved ones, many of whom did not return.

Grandma keeps his book at home carefully. The story in which she saw the image of her grandfather was carefully cut out of the collection and stored in a frame - similar descriptions are emphasized by a simple pencil. Grandmother says that if he had not documented Kolyma and everything that he saw, she would have remembered her grandfather only as he left - uncomfortable, with a frozen promise on her lips that he would 55

definitely return soon. In a few letters, he never complained of animal cold and animal deeds of those who were stronger and more important. And by virtue of her young age, she did not fully understand what was really happening. And that writer, a man with kind and sad eyes, helped her restore the whole true picture of what was. To realize with great pain that grandfather felt terribly exhausted, but he did not want to talk about it and he was not allowed to.

And grandmother is still surprised how he had the strength to record everything that was.

And he remains for her the main writer and mouthpiece, which appeals to the soul of man and compassion. This writer was Varlam Shalamov. And he was not the only writer who found himself in my life indirectly or directly, accidentally or intentionally.

For example, the famous writer (whose name I can’t actually say, but you totally know him) who I met twice in my life. For the first time - on the LIVE of the Dozhd TV channel, I came there to report on his lecture from one famous portal. He called it a dumb, trapped site, and then, incandescent and then, leaning towards my ear, whispered: "Your editor-in-chief is a fool and a snob." I was not offended, because this was not my permanent place of work. I was in the 1st year of university and constantly looking for a place for an internship, that's all. The second time I met him at the “Non/fiction” literature fair, which is held annually in Moscow. He immediately recognized me, remembered by name and signed two books with a smile, which he immediately handed me with the words: "You don't have to pay anything." He signed the book as follows: "Dasha, you have nothing to do at the HSE (approx. - Higher School of Economics, in which I then studied)." In addition, he left his mail. I wrote to him after 2 weeks. There was no response. But I didn’t care. At least, I met him and that was already good.

Grandmother has always been a well-read and especially writing person. She accustomed to this me since my childhood. She did not make me sit down and read Russian classics, but, one might say, she put various books next to me while I was playing horses. My gaze fell on them, and in the next moment I was already sitting and reading “Fourth Height” or the book “White Bim Black Ear”. My first books from 5 years old. It was no longer possible to tear me away from a wide variety of books, and it turned out that I spent almost my entire lyceum life behind books, and not on walks with friends. In student life, in fact, little has changed - I got drunk at the 1 course, realized that drinking for me is low and disgusting and especially to such an extent, and quickly evaporated from all student 56

parties. Only internships, orders of articles and books remained. At one point, my mother began to forbid me to bring more and more books home - they no longer had enough space in our small one-room apartment, and two cabinets with blue doors were already littered with books. And in the meantime, I filled them with a desktop, wardrobes with clothes and everything where you could find at least a free piece of suitable space. Book geek, no different. A book obsession that you can hardly be proud of in your right mind.

When she died under certain circumstances, a particle of my soul and identity was taken out of me. Grandma was a person I could call every day and easily tell how the school day went, training at an equestrian club, job interviews, reading a book and writing a story.

Grandmother was an old woman of old hardening with monarchical inclinations, but she accepted everything in me, even sometimes with creaky teeth: both my piercing and hobby, first, the democratic party Yabloko, and then the skinhead movement. And when she died, and we went to bury her, it seemed to me that part of my personality had been torn away from me with deep and intimate experiences, and now she will be closed under the heavy lid of the coffin and buried in the damp earth. It was so hard to look at this procession that I could not stand it and just ran out of church like the last coward.

Sometimes I think whether it is possible to build your personality through love for another person. I think yes. I can name the sides of my personality that were purely instilled in me by my maternal grandmother. And love for her helped me become a journalist, because my grandmother herself was very fond of writing and reading, but, according to her, she could not do this at a professional level, since she was without higher education. But I always knew and know that for me she remains the most important inspirer and person who once told me: "Everything will be fine, because you try and strive.”

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My life behind my bar Alexander Tsiryulsky Do you have something in your life that makes you yourself? Something that you can't imagine being cut out of your life?

Let me quote Nabokov for a little bit in a very rough and cruel way.

Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. It takes only a slight movement of lips and tongue to form a word "Bar".

Imagine a fashionable restaurant with a classical music playing in the background. You can call it fancy. Every little detail in the interior fits its place. There are beautiful paintings on the walls, the fireplace quietly crackles. Sleek waiters fly around like feathers, bringing in more and more dishes of high kitchen. Well-dressed and well-perfumed ladies and gentlemen are pretentiously talking about their riches while carefully sipping on a glass of a classy red wine. Looks like some kind of a paradise for a snob, doesn't it?

Let's leave it be, and let me take you to another place. The view drastically changes. Let your eyes and even ears get used to the change of scenery. Let it sink in, don't hurry up, or it might even hurt. Hell on earth greets you. The soft classical music is replaced by a hard rock. The paintings have now turned into the vivid writings on the walls. The interior that had once been moderate was knuckled down by the ferocity of different colours and became inferior. There are ladies and gentlemen too, but those of a kind that drink bottles of cheap beer one by one while screaming louder than human's ear can even bear without bleeding. They can easily punch you right in the face if you dare to take a look too close.

I guess you'd like to transcend to a better place. Here it is. A pub that is filled with a friendly atmosphere. You are welcome here. The scent of tasty food and beer makes you feel like you can stay here forever or make a visit at least twice a week. Everything inside or outside seems suitable, not more or less. Feel free to join, they have a bonus card for their regular clients.

But who is that person standing in the dim lights behind a bar in all of those scenes and many more places? Hello, it's me. I've been there standing with a smile or a grimace of disgust, whether it was fake or true. Don't let my facial expressions distract you - I enjoy being part of this.

Let me introduce myself. I am Alexander. I've been working as a bartender since I was 18.

How did I choose this specific job? Well, it was kind of an obvious choice for a young lad like me. I still remember the first day of probation and especially the eyes of my mentor when i looked at the menu and said, "Yeah, I know the most of these beverages, hire me 58

right now". That was the start of my career as a bartender. I don't regret any single day of being part of this.

Bartending lies as a thick red line throughout my lifestyle. Besides some essential things that every bartender should learn, there are many positive side-effects. It helped me improve my cooking skills, mostly because mastery of mixing cocktails for each and every person goes pretty well along with creating some truly delicious dishes. As a plus, there certainly goes a close touch with fellow cooks. Nonetheless, I can't even imagine a proffesion with so much communication with various types of people. I've heard so many stories that they lie tight one on another in my head.

Rpg games have an "experience" meter that defines the level of a concrete character. I feel like i've used a cheat to get a ton of this experience, much more than i've been meant to gain, taking into account that I am just 22 years old.

There are negative things, of course. I've turned my affliction with alcohol into a better state, not bitter, but not everyone can handle that. And certainly sometimes I wish I had a little more time to myself and my close ones. During the summer I usually don't get enough sleep, but after all, it's not the speed that kills you; it's the sudden stop at the end.

Bartender once - bartender forever, I guess.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to the International Writing Program, the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs at the U.S. Department of State, and the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, for designing, organizing and funding the program. A special thank you to IWP Director Christopher Merrill, and Assistant Cultural Affairs Officer at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, Damian Wampler.

Thank you also to our colleagues at IWP: Hugh Ferrer, Josie Neumann, Nataša Ďurovičová, and Pamela Marston, who assisted with the course and the publication in various ways.

Emily Buck - 2020 Program Coordinator and Anthology Editor

Individual pieces copyright © 2020 by their respective authors. All rights reserved.

International Writing Program 430 North Clinton Street, Shambaugh House, Iowa City, Iowa 52242 United States of America

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