Fools Rush in...

None of my friends back home would say that I didn't lack courage. But there is a fine line between sensible courageous actions and that foolhardiness that lands a woman with no Russian in Zelenograd. I was met at the airport and driven to my super flat, where I felt immediately at home. It didn't take me long to realize that waiting for the number 19 bus in Zelenograd isn't much different for waiting for the number 19 bus in Piccadilly. Just fewer tourists and more snow - the wait is just as long. For the first time in about 8 months, including a month in Australia, I didn't need a hot water bottle and joy of joys the endless hotwater filled a bath that was not so long that I couldn't lie down and read without sliding underneath. The hot water, a cold glass of vodka and opera playing in the background was my idea of heaven. This, I thought to myself is a good place.

It didn't initially bother me that I couldn't read a word of the language, and that for some strange reason almost every day someone spoke to me either at the bus stop or on the bus, and I had to shake my head and try to explain that I was English. Thankfully progressing from 'I am an Englishman'. But gradually, it began to get more and more depressing. I couldn't even get a taxi, and when at the end of my first full week here I found myself coming down with the ubiquitous 'cold', I became increasingly frustrated waiting in the cold snow and wind as people hopped into cars.

The day in Moscow for my first seminar was when I realized that I was really quite sick, so the much awaited social occasion in the evening had to be foregone so that I could struggle home to my bed, being eternally grateful that the 400 bus to Zelenograd leaves from the end of the Metro line. The next week I struggled on, coughing for Britain and gamely taking over a couple more lessons that involved a long walk on treacherous ice carrying heavy bags. Things were looking bleaker.

Week three arrived, but for me there was no week three. Never have I coughed so much, never have I been so violently ill, never have I wanted my mother so much, never ever have I bitterly regretted what ever it was that made me decide to do a CELTA course, pack my bags and come here. I had no books to read, no television to watch, just some radio comedy recorded on my laptop, I slipped in and out of a fitful sleep.

And of course with the illness came the cockroaches. I have been told that the best way to get rid of cockroaches is to be angry, but it seems that my cockroaches waited till I was down, and then decided to party. OK so they weren't that big, I'll give them that, but for a whole week I kept my kitchen light on all night to avoid the 'scurrying' when I switched the light on in the middle of the night when I went to get some water. And of course with the illness came that total helplessness that is so infuriating for someone who is used to total independence and competence. Having to stand in a chemists pointing frantically at my 'guidebook' phrase for 'I have a sore throat' and then my dictionary word for 'bad', is not my idea of fun and at my age bursting into tears is undignified to say the least, but at this point I was beyond caring! Sadly the medication from the chemist was not enough and by Wednesday I was taken to the Doctors.

Thank God for Doctors. Never has a cold stethoscope felt so welcoming, never has the word 'viral infection' sounded so wonderfully reassuring. I wasn't going mad, I was just 'ill'. Then, bundled into the back of a car I was taken to get the medication. Antibiotics from Austria, a puffer for my throat, and drops for my nose. All magnificent. I could sleep at last.

So I am now into week four. I am back at my classes, but still coughing. The enthusiasm I had in weeks one and two has been lost as I struggle to remember what on earth it is I am supposed to be doing here. I have finally had my very first Russian lesson and the enormity of the task ahead fills me with dread. I go back to my flat and gaze longingly at my postcards of Sydney, Melbourne, Menorca, Spain. Every day I write down how many days I have left.

It will get better I tell myself, it will get easier, my class of three elementary adults will soon start to understand my instructions, my exuberant 12 year olds will actually do some work, my adorable 8 year olds will start to talk and my intermediate group will work in pairs, I will be able to buy things from kiosks and get cabs and the sun will shine and there won't be any slush any more.......

So please, before I pack up my bags, declare myself a failure and go home to Mummy, please let me know why this country is so wonderful, why teaching English is so wonderful, please, please, tell me that I haven't been a fool to come here, please tell me why I should stay. Thank you. By the way, my e-mail address is A@alisonramage.freeserve.co.uk.

Alison Ramage