Tapochki and Trowels: Some Springtime Thoughts

 Almost overnight, the icy winter has thawed to reveal the waterlogged sponge that is Russia in the spring time. Walking to class, my nostrils are flush with the fresh scent of fertile earth, and the leftovers of autumn decomposing after being freed from their frozen state. Even though we have been relieved of the risk of freezing, and springtime liberates the soul, feet feel no freer in rubber prisons built to protect them from puddles so deep they rival lakes. In this muddy transition between seasons, the line distinguishing “indoors” from “outdoors” that prevails in Russia year-round is at once blurred by rays of sunshine streaming through my bedroom window, and sharpened every time someone crosses the threshold.

Upon entering the dwelling of a Russian, it is customary to replace shoes with slippers or “tapochki”. In fact, Russians tend be a little obsessive about shoes; just the other day I was out with a Russian friend who constantly stopped to dust off his white sneakers with moist hand wipes. The origin of this mentality towards footwear is quite practical; for most of the year, Russia is snowy, wet, and muddy, and tracking the elements into the house makes a rather difficult job for the housekeeper. I have found, though, that the roots of this separation between street and home go beyond worrying about mopping the floor. Changing out of street shoes and clothes symbolizes the transition between the dirty, severe natural environment and the sanctuary of the home. While Russians have traditionally depended on natural resources such as land so rich it is sometimes referred to as “black earth”, fish from the numerous rivers, and the oil reserves that lie in Russian territories, the harshness of the out of doors is a hardship for many. In his book Russia: A Journey to the Heart of a Land and its People, Jonathan Dimbleby, a BBC journalist, constantly references that Russians' exposure to the elements often makes them look much older than they are. I, too, have witnessed such a tendency, especially in residents of smaller towns and villages far away from the city where their livelihood often depends on agriculture. While there is plenty of work to be done in the sphere of the home, it still serves as a place of refuge from work and weather. When the home is so highly valued as a place to hide from the natural world, it seems almost sacrilegious to track in the residue of the outside world.

As the sun warms us, though, the “dacha”--small summer home in the country-- begins to transform the outdoors into as much of a place of rest as a place of work. Many Russians who live in the city also own a small plot of land on the outskirts of town, or in a not-so-far-off village. A remnant of the Soviet era when the dacha served as a supplement to the dinner table—fresh produce in the summertime, and preserves all winter long—to this day, Russians look forward to the warm months when they can spend long afternoons working the land, and evenings in the “banya” (bath house). I, myself, have enjoyed jams and pickles thanks to my host family's labors, and this has clearly illustrated that the dacha, like slippers, continues to hold a practical purpose in Russian society. The light in their eyes when they talk about the countryside, though, shows me that their reverence towards and connection with the land borders on spiritual.

In this paradoxical culture, conflicting attitudes towards nature that usually wouldn't occur together strangely seem to fit. As I strive to make the most out of my last month in Russia (for now), I look forward to any opportunity I have to appreciate my natural surroundings with the vigor of a Russian soul, and will change into my slippers when I come home so as not to dirty the floors. On this note, I leave you with the words of Leo Tolstoy, “Rest, nature, books, music...such is my idea of happiness.”