Lost in Translation

Some things are just lost in translation.

For example, my babushka will likely never understand my love of Nelly, to whom she hears me shaking my tailfeather through my bedroom wall a little too often.

She will probably never comprehend my b’dazzled style or my general refusal to wear pants after May 1–she thinks that my not wearing tights with skirts makes me a Woman Of The Night and at this point I think I am okay with it.

My babushka doesn’t get why No Brush Russia is a thing (5 months of tangled mane and going strong) and tells me that knotted hair is no way for a young woman to find herself a husband. Au contraire, dear grandma, au contraire.

There are a lot of things the two of us have come across in my time here but one we’ve spent a lot of time dancing around is my veganism (and not in the Nelly way). My babushka has been great since I’ve lived with her- she makes soup (and more soup) and really just lots o’ dishes vegan-ized for me, which I appreciate immensely. I’ve tried out some classic Russian stuff and tried not to let my vegan lifestyle hold me back from experiencing the culture of this country. All of that said, vegetarianism remains a острый (sharp, spicy) topic around 4th Sovietskaya Street.

The other day I was making an anatomy model of my body and asking my babushka the names of various bones. After explaining the clavicle (the word is like “key” cuz the bone moves in the shoulder socket like a key in a lock!) she told me that you need several servings of tvorog every day for bone strength. “And you, of course, do not eat any milk products. Just don’t complain to me when your bones break.”

Now, I know better than to launch into a vegan rant with anyone, and especially not with her. I have my reasons for being vegan and I believe in them but I’m not tryna get sass-ma-frassed by a 75-year-old wearing tinted glasses with a high enough prescription to make eyes look terrifying, a shoulder-padded dress last sported on Dynasty and fuzzy leopard print slippers. The reality is that we are women of different generations, different cultures. I came to Russia to learn the language and experience life with a family and I didn’t expect it to be butterflies and rainbows (both of those things were banned when the USSR collapsed anyhow).

I guess that what I’m saying it that even after 5+ months here I’m still mastering the give and take necessary in a relationship which crosses so many unconventional boundaries. Last week was my American friend Sasha’s birthday and my babushka wasted no time in telling me that the inside-joke present I’d put together was weird and un-present-like. “Why don’t you just get her a book?”

I’m still learning a lot of Russian (yesterday my babushka’s great-granddaughter taught me how to say boogers) but my education in Russia is wound in a different, maybe even more complex scheme of how to interact with people. My babushka and I may never see eye to eye on veganism but we had a pretty great moment a few days ago when I explained quinoa to her. Quinoa is not sold in Russia but I brought a package back with me from the States and showed it to the Bab. She tasted it and decided that this kasha (universal term for porridge) looked like the corn kasha I often eat for breakfast. “But more bitter.” I laughed and said I didn’t really like the taste when I’d first tried it but I’d gotten used to it. She laughed and said that the first five times she ate olives she hated them but the sixth she decided they were her favorite food.

Tonight I came home late from a ballet. I texted my babushka on the way home so that she wouldn’t worry or stay up like she usually does when I’m out late and don’t call. I shuffled in wearing my fancy shoes and went into the kitchen for some water. In the dark I noticed a pot on the stove. My babushka had made my breakfast:

We’re getting there.

Crazy/Busy

Hello friends.

It’s been a while since we’ve talked. I’m currently so unabashedly watching the finale of Dancing with the Stars with my mom double fisting blueberries and granola #thingsIcan’tdoinRussia? All I’m sayin is if Donald Driver doesn’t win heads are gonna roll at ABC. Anyway, the last few weeks have been Crazy/Busy (I write it like that, of course, in the format of the second best Kirsten Dunst movie of all time after Bring It On, the classic piece of cinematography Crazy/Beautiful). To give you an idea, in the days of late I have:

• been on a roll of going into stores, painting my nails then leaving

• awkwardly walked in on my babushka deeply involved in conversation with her plants on more than one occasion
• celebrated Victory Day/День победы (one of the largest holidays in Russia) with fireworks and stoop beers

• passed my final exams, fingers crossed (jk mom and dad! definitely passed!!!)
• went to my first Russian doctor’s appointment where I was, upon arrival, promptly asked to remove my shirt (I had a cold.)
• said so long see ya later to Russian friends
• and said so long see ya later to Russia

• travelled on three planes for 25 glorious, sleepless hours

• came home. ate kale.

• went and celebrated my cuz’n Lucas graduating collegio in style

• aaaaaaaand obviously made some bomb new foods. After a serious lack of cooking in Russia I’ve been more productive lately than a newly married Mormon couple. I have three new recipes for you! I will post them one at a time but here’s a sneak peek…

[chickpea quinoa falafel]

[BBQ grilled tofu and portobellos with homemade BBQ sauce]

[no-bake chocolate chip cookies]

Now that’s Crazy/Beautiful.

Trip of Steppic Proportions

You know how when people talk about travel they always say stuff like “destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things,” or “experience, travel – these are as education in themselves” or “a ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for”? Well when I say “people” I mean  “no one”, and when I say “stuff” I mean “things I would actually say only after I’d Google image searched ‘larvae’ and plucked every hair from my head,” but I digress.

Last week I took a nine day trip to the south of Russia with the group of American students studying at my university. We took a 30 hour train ride south to Rostov-on-Don, where I took the opportunity to wade in the Don River and sing the classic Sisqo hit “The Don Song” (let me see that Don-da-don-don-don).

We drove around for about 5 more days in a ghetto bus with a velour interior and outer space-themed curtains. We went camping on the Steppe (I took this opportunity to make a million “Steppe” puns- lemme see you one, two Steppe), went to the largest Buddhist temple in Europe, spit off a bridge which unites Europe and Asia (my saliva was forever lost in the continental divide), visited a place called “Chess City,” and ate delicious Armenian food.

Traveling as a vegan can be a hit-or-miss experience, depending how flexible you’re willing to be. I prepared before we left (lugged instant oats, almond butter and dried apricots around a good portion of southwestern Russia) and every time we were near a store I stopped in to stock up on whatever fresh/dried fruit, fresh/canned veg, nuts, canned beans, bread, or dark chocolate I could find. I was lucky in that I was largely in control of my meals and unlucky in that I explored the frightening world of Russian preserved vegetables. FYI, pickled cauliflower is only OK.

On the other side of this trip I can say a few things about travel.

1) Preparation is key but you can’t anticipate everything (flat tires in the middle of absolute nowhere, nothing vegan except pickles and vodka for meals, etc). Flexibility is always a good thing but especially on the high open seas

2) Unexpected friends from random places are the best friends. I met some unlikely characters along the way (re: friends who make balloon animals together on a 40 hour train ride stay together). When we were at a stop along the way in a town called Voronezh I befriended a toothless woman who felt a Christmas sweater was appropriate for the 80 degree weather and gave me a free ice cream. When she found out I was from the US she petted my dirty train hair and cooed “Amehhhhhdeeka, Amehhhhdeeka!” and told me how she had a feeling she’d see me again on the television one day.

3) Steppe softly and carry a big stick.

*Almost all of these pictures were taken by my talented friend Sashinka (known to the rest of the world as Alex Bird). GIRL GOT SKILL.

On Cabbage Soup and Bun-fights

Here’s a piece of advice for you:

When your parents travel 4,000 miles to visit you in a foreign city and are on their way to meet your host parents please, for the love of kale, do not lose them.

It may be tempting to watch them teeter through the crowds of slick metrosexual men and fur-clad, stiletto-sporting gazelles but I’m telling you it’s no good. If and when you accidentally get on different busses in downtown St. Petersburg you will go through a set of emotions something like this: scared, amused, annoyed, confused, amused, scared, bored, nervous, hungry, scared and then you’ll realize you’re never going to see your parents again. Soon enough a random woman named Olga will be calling you to tell you she found some people who claim to know you and you will reconsider your belief in God. More likely than not you’ll hear your mom shrieking in the background “ISABELLE! HER NAME IS ISABELLE!”

Like I said, that’s no good. As you’ve guessed by now said situation happened to me last week when my parents came to St. Petersburg. We eventually made it to my apartment where my babushka had cleaned everything until it freakin’ sparkled. Russian women do not kid around about impressing guests. We walked in and despite the fact that I come into our three room apartment every day I was struck by how much everything looked like heaven. My babushka had bullied me into cleaning my room for weeks and I gotta say it paid off. We shall ignore the pile of gum, dirty bras, grammar assignments and chia seeds occupying my floor at the current moment.

The royal We plus my mom, dad, babushka and dedushka [grandpa] had what is called a чаепитие “chaepitie,” which I would translate as a tea party but Google Translate prefers “bun-fight.” Alright then.

This meeting was one of those things that I knew before during and after I would want to remember forever. Like, if you knew this cast of characters you’d understand that it was 100% guaranteed ridiculousness. I served as the translator and knowingly chuckled to myself the entire time while all parties smiled shifty grins and laughed uneasily at each other. Highlights: Igor Konstantinovich offering my dad vodka shots with a flick of the throat—universal Russian sign for let’s get drunk, babushka repeatedly telling my parents to eat more, my parents looking terrified, my babushka saying that she thinks of me as a granddaughter, my mom getting very emotional about it all, my mom crying, me telling my babushka “my mom’s very emotional,” my mom telling me “tell her I’m emotional!,” a huge plate of VEGAN BLINI, and, most importantly, so many people I love in one tiny, food-filled Russian kitchen. When I came to Russia I was nervous about a lot of things but finding a new family was definitely at the top of the list. Living with the Bab and the Ded has given me a new sense of family (a traditional, bossy, Soviet-style family, but family nonetheless) which I would not trade for any other family in any other city in any other part of the world.

Witnessing the fear on my parents’ faces when posed with the challenging of eating their weight in blini brought joy to my heart. The fact that my Russian grandparents were able to meet two of the people I love and admire most in the world was very special. As I like to say, this is a vegan blog so I’ll keep it from getting super cheesy but this is definitely going in my lifetime experience hall of fame along with that time I had a “Soviet Bloc out with your Cock Out” party and served only vodka and no chasers. I’ll tell you about it later.

Anyway, there’s nothing like family on family on family to make you feel loved. Speaking of love, my dad is newly in love with shchi, Russia’s second favorite soup after borscht. By coincidence my Bab made it this week so here is a recipe for y’all:

My Babushka’s Cabbage Soup (Shchi)

Don’t skimp on good quality vegetables. They’re worth it.

• 1 onion, minced
• 2-3 Tablespoons oil (sunflower or olive)
• 1/2 large head fresh cabbage, chopped
• 1 carrot, shredded
• 5-6 cups water or vegetable stock
• 2-3 small potatoes, boiled, peeled, sliced
• 2-3 Tablespoons chopped parsley
• 2 bay leaves
• 2-3 teaspoons salt, or to taste
• sugar to taste (Russian trick)
• black pepper to taste

1. Heat a frying pan and add 2 Tbs oil, onion, cabbage, and carrot. Sauté “to preparedness” (Russians love this phrase) over a medium flame, ~7-10 minutes. Add salt to taste.

2. Transfer the sautéed vegetables to a pot. Fill halfway with water/veg stock and bring to a boil. Add chopped parsley and bay leaves. Bring to a boil then remove the foam on top and reduce flame to minimum.

3. Add the chopped potatoes and garlic. Add salt and sugar to taste. (While sugar may seem strange in a savory dish it actually makes the flavors pop and even a teaspoon or two can work well). Cover and simmer on a low flame 10-15 minutes. 5 minutes before it’s ready add black pepper to taste.

Serve hot with some good black bread. Make it for your family, whoever that may be.

Nose Soup

As I write this I have two chunk of onion wedged up my nostrils.

According to my babushka, this is a surefire way to get rid of a cold. According to me, this is a surefire way to make soup in my nose. Either way, everything in St. Petersburg is going to smell like raw onion for the next several days which may or may not be a nice change of pace from damp fur coat stench.

This past weekend I took a trip to Moscow. I would say it was “chill” but at this point cold weather jokes just make me kind of sad, it’s better not to go there. I left Petersburg on the midnight train with my friend Abra and arrived at Leningrad Station around 7 AM Wednesday. Cold and disoriented, we made a beeline to Red Square (pro: deserted and saw the sunrise. con: awake 7 am).

We spent the day wandering around the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Cathedral, and Church of Christ the Savior. Fun fact: the aforementioned church was destroyed in the 1812 war with Napoleon and was made into a swimming pool under Stalin. The church was reconstructed in its original form and place in the late 90′s. My babushka told me that she swam in said pool in the 60′s. Reason #264 why my babushka is the shit.

Thursday we went to the RUSSIAN SPACE MUSEUM. I was incredibly excited because a) I have a huge not-creepy-okay-kinda-creepy crush on young astronaut Yuri Gagarin [first man in space! c'mon, sexy!] b) I clearly love all things nerdy and Russian. The nerdier and the Russianer, the better. c) I am fascinated by space and would be on my way to becoming an astronaut if not for b.

[floating fruits, jumpsuits, Soviet hugs-this is everything I like.]

While in Moscow, Abra and I made a pact to spend as little money as possible and only indulge in necessary items (beer). We ended up eating grechka (buckwheat groats) for dinner all three nights. A 900 gram bag (2 lbs) costs 50 rubles ($1.60) and when cooked makes a huge ass pot filled to the brim. We had an eating contest which I promptly won then resolved never to eat grechka again. Until the next day.

Friday we went to the Tretyakov Gallery and the Park of Fallen Heroes. The Park is this nuts sculpture garden where they deposited a bunch of old and suddenly unwanted Soviet statues after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Basically there are a million statues/busts of Lenin, Stalin and ol’ man Gorbachev. I obviously took the opportunity to go around and pick each of their stony noses.

Obviously.

As for me, I’m off bed so this sniffle doesn’t turn into something worse. Or so it’ll turn into something better. That is, if onion soup is your thing.

St. Petersburg is Melting

St. Petersburg is melting.

The roofs are dripping, puddles are becoming lakes, my feet are soaked. The temperature is a whopping +2 C (36ºF) and I’m wearing a T-shirt. There is sweat on my lower back. Is it actually possible that springtime is around the corner? While my babushka and her fur coat would point to no my cotton gloves and single pair of pants point to yes. Today I felt the warmth of the sun on my skin and lemme tell ya, ladies and gentlemen, it felt GREAT. All of you in warm climates (Wisconsin this season, jigga whaaat) can enjoy your year-long nice weather but I can assure that when 40º comes in Russia I will be dancing in the streets and hanging from the Bronze Horseman in a bikini. St. Petersburg: brace yoself.

Since my brush with giardia last Monday (okay, exaggeration of the century, don’t care) this week has taken a turn for the better. Wednesday we had a 10 AM tour and tasting at the Baltika beer factory which ensured sloppy drunkenness by noon. When I stumbled home I was delighted to find that my babushka made кислый щи (“sh-chi,” sour cabbage soup). I am not sure whether she noticed when I spilled half of my bowl and proceeded to slurp it off the table but she did offer me seconds.

Since then I’ve been enjoying the soup leftovers with сушки (“sushki”) galore. Sushki are the miniature bagel crackers seen below. I like to bite them off of my fingers one by one (edible jewelry is very high on my list of things everyone should enjoy, along with interpretive dance battles, kale, yelling Nelly lyrics at people, swimming places you’re not supposed to, and discussing the end of the world with babushkas).

You may have heard that elections are tomorrow or maybe you even sawPutin’s big ol’ head in the NYT. Aside from the ridiculous(ly sexual) ads that have been circulating recently the Russians I know aren’t too worked up about it all. In fact, 99% of them have said that they’re 99% sure Putin will win and think it’s probably for the best. The other candidates are lamer than the Everybody Loves Raymond rerun I saw playing in a Fidel Castro-themed bar yesterday. [Seriously, Russia?]

Anyway, while springtime may not be imminent in Russian politics I personally am closer every day to remembering shorts and weening myself off of vitamin D pills (gotta say, I love the D). Maybe next week I’ll even swim in the Neva.

That is, if the ice has melted.

New Words

It was bound to happen eventually.

This love affair of metro rides, 30 ruble beers, snowdrifts and sunflower seed halva I’ve been having lately with St. Petersburg has just been too sweet. (Seriously, have you ever tried halva? It’s what 6 future cavities taste like in the present).

Walking on the frozen Neva, ballet, cheap elektrichka rides up north to see the Bay of Finland – none of it seems entirely real and pretty much all of it seems too sophisticated and classy for my “laps are as good as napkins” self. Everything is exploding with beautiful and when free time rolls around I’m always a little flustered about what to visit. Recently I’ve been to Peter the Great’s “Cabinet of Curiosities” at Kunstkamera (proving, once again, Russia is normal and not creepy), the northern town of Vyborg, ice skating in the park at Pavlovsk, and jumping around at a ramble-rousin’ Maslenitsa celebration by Tsarskoe Selo in Pushkin.

When I said “it was bound to happen” I meant get sick. The water in St. Petersburg is notoriously bad (my host grandparents have this funky system where they collect drops from the bathroom faucet with a funnel, pour it through a filter, then boil it). I woke up this morning, downed my normal kasha* with banana and tea and hopped on the trolleybus to school. Five minutes into my first class I felt the wrath of 100,000 angry gremlins punching at my stomach and knew I wasn’t going to last there. I ended up getting sick and went home. Today I learned that “меня рвало”/”menya rvalo” means I puked! See how much I’m getting out of this experience? (Additionally “я блюю” means something a bit more crude like I’m yuking and is pronounced “ya blew-you.” Thanks, Mom and Dad for these education dollaz.

Anyway, I’m feeling a lot better and am taking this time at home to sleep and catch up on things like bloggin’. I’ve downed some crackers and am waiting for my babushka to come home from her weekly outing to feed me potions from a cauldron or rub mustard on me or something. Apparently that’s a thing.

With love and crackers crumbs,

Izzy

PS. I now have a flickr for loads more Mothaland shots!

*I am planning to do a post entirely devoted to kasha (porridge). Try to contain your excitement.

St. P.Diddysburg

Hello my comrads.

I am writing to you with one week of Russia under my belt. I have there also under said belt a stomach full of delicious cabbage soup (щи – “shchi”), buckwheat, (гречка – “grechka”) and some fried conglomerate of mushrooms, eggplant, and carrots. I just Googled mushroom eggplant russia soviet mushy to see if this dish has a name. It doesn’t.

My time in Russia so far has been baller. In a recent message to my friends I described it the following way:

Russia is awesome as fuck. Coldest I’ve ever been. Everything is gorgeous and sparkly. More stilettos and fur than I thought possible. Tonight we went to a club and I danced with a guy in leather pants. He picked me up and spun me around on his shoulder. I love this country.

My host family is great. I live with a set of Russian grandparents (Marina Nikolaevna and Igor Konstantinovich) in a two-bedroom apartment where nothing matches or is less than 50 years old on a street literally called Soviet Street. My room looks straight out of 1979 and per Russian custom I wear slippers in the house at all times. Marina Nikolaevna makes awesome vegan food and has only once twice thus far passive aggressively lectured me on how the body needs meat and delicious milk products. I expect many more of these lectures. I told her I sometimes eat metal to get necessary minerals. Sometimes conversation doesn’t flow super smoothly.

Petersburg itself is gorgeous. It’s hard to accurately encapsulate in some dumb blog post but basically everything seems like the best thing you’ve ever seen and absolutely larger than life. I can’t use that expression without thinking of boy bands and blonde tips but that also seems pretty relevant here. I live just off of Nevsky Prospekt which is kinda the main drag of the city and convenient for transportation and exploringtimes. I am studying at a university and have classes four days a week taught in Russian. We have excursions on Wednesdays, next week we’re going to the ballet Eugene Onegin and I am going to get dolled up. (Think this:

)

I’m also trying to swing an internship/volunteer job with the St. Petersburg Vegetarian Society, The St. Petersburg Times, or some kind of after school program with kids. I try to speak Russian with my friends here, of which I have some!!! (Сашинка, это ты?) and speak exclusively in Russian with my host babushka. [Before I go any further it’s pronounced BAH-booshka, contrary to whatever you were reading in your head.] My babushka and I speak on a variety of topics ranging from Soviet history to crosswords and the *correct* way to peel and apple. More steps than you think.

Once again, if you’re interesting in knowing what veganism is like in Russia, what Russia is like, what it’s like for snot to freeze mid-drip, or just think I’m cute and charming feel free to check out my twitter which I’m calling “St. Tweetersburg” for the next 4 months.

[amazing split pea soup my babushka makes for me. Recipe soon, in English if you’re lucky.]

Well, it’s currently -26ºC = -8ºF so I figure it’s as good a time as any to go to sleep. Sorry for the lack of pictures, I’ll get to that as soon as it seems possible to take my hands from my pockets when I’m outside.

Love and boiled beets,

Izzy

Baby Got Back

Holy kale, who can believe it’s January 21st?! Not this girl. The last three weeks have been a blur of travel, friends, crazy delicious food, falling asleep watching movies (don’t you love that?), having to pee on public transportation (don’t you hate that?), brownies, grandmas (my own and otherwise), pop music, and prep for Russia. I was in Key West, Florida, northern Vermont, NYC, and of course am now back in Bean Town. I want to make a million unfunny jokes about vegans and beans but I’ll restrain myself. Here are a few snapshots from my most recent travels to New York:

banana chocolate chip pancakes, chai, and my future

union sq farmers market

view from my room in May’s apartamento

awesome restaurant Maimonide in Brooklyn (flatbreads shaped like Brooklyn bridge, kale chips while you wait, free comic books with menu? Is this real life?)

Did I mention I’m leaving for St. Petersburg this Thursday? Did I mention my nails are bitten to my knuckles and I’ve spent more hours than I should really admit looking up Russian swears? Can anyone explain why this is my first reaction?

I don’t have any new recipizzies (womp womp) but I do have some exciting news: Veganizzm is coming with me to Russia (teh internetz are everywhere!) so this blog is about to get a whooooole lot crazier. And cabbagier. And potentially more vodka-ish, though I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. I’m sure this will be a bizarre and interesting experiment, so if you’re into that kinda sheezy stay with me! You can also czech out Veganizzm’s twitttttter, ye oldefacebooke page, or the Tumblr version of the blog for additional updates. This is the part where I admit that despite whatever happened there in the last sentence I still don’t understand social media so for the 1,000,067th time, BEAR WITH ME.

Anyway, signing out, I’ll catch you chickadees from the other side of the Atlantic.

Much love and many lentils,

Izzy

Gorgeous Hanging Pepper Arrangements

Happy New Year! Here’s a story.

This is a very special story about some very special hanging pepper arrangements.

The month is October. It is a  Sunday.

I get a call from father.

Isabelle, are you going to be home Thursday?

Yeah, Dad

Are you sure? You’ll definitely be there?

Yep

You will be in your apartment during regular business hours?

Yes

You’re sure?

Yeah, I get out of class at noon

OK, great

Two minutes later he calls me back.

Isabelle, are you definitely going to be home?

DAD. YES.

A package is coming to your apartment. Is it safe to leave packages there?

Yeah, they leave them in the hall

A very important package is coming Thursday

At this point I get nervous that my dad is sending me gold or entrusting me with a weapon of mass destruction

I don’t know what to say.

He sends me a text: Iz—I’m sending you three gorgeous hanging pepper arrangements. They will arrive Thursday. Make sure to be home. Love. Daddio

I have no idea what this means.

Thursday comes. I wait with anticipation.

The package arrives in a box large enough to fit a person.

Surely enough there are three gorgeous hanging pepper arrangements inside with fresh hot peppers of every color, shape, and size

My dad calls to ask if I’ve received them

I tell him yes, they are very beautiful, thank you.

He tells me how he went to Seattle and saw them in Pike place and knew he had to get them

He tells me to give one to my sister

I read the instructions and they say:

DO NOT HANG IN DIRECT SUNLIGHT

DO NOT HANG NEAR A WINDOW

DO NOT HANG AGAINST A WALL

DO NOT HANG IN A WARM PLACE

DO NOT HANG UNDER A LIGHT

I realize there is no such location in our apartment

I settle for the wall in the kitchen.

Time passes. Half of the peppers rot and fall to the floor

Our chihuahua, Bruse, has diarrhea for two weeks and we can’t figure out why

We figure out why.

I vow to use the peppers before I leave for Russia

I plot and plan how to use the peppers and surprise my dad with a cool blog shout out

I try a quarter (1/4) of one (1) of the peppers in a curry dish. It is almost inedibly spicy.

I think and think but time seems to move at breakneck speed

The clock runs out and the buzzer sounds

They semester is over and I have two slightly  less gorgeous but still gorgeous hanging pepper arrangements against my wall in direct sunlight.

Yesterday I posted on my Facebook “anybody looking to cop a couple gorgeous hanging pepper arrangements?” and got a few bites

I will bestow the GPHAs to two responsible owners while I am abroad and hope that they can make the situation right.

In spiciness,

Izzy