shalinialisha/ai-for-all · Datasets at Hugging Face

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this country it appears that everything is seen in terms of food. That
is, the labor of one’s hands is measured by how much food you can
produce, and then you take that and compare its importance to the
worth of the other work that you do. Some men and women spend
their whole lives, for instance, learning and doing the infinitely slow
and patient handwork of retouching Persian Blue tiles down in
Samarkand to restore the ancient mausoleums. It is considered very
precious work. But antiquities have a particular value, whereas
carrying someone else’s bag does not have a very high priority
because it is not very productive either of beauty or worth. If you
can’t manage it, then that’s another story. I find it a very interesting
concept.
It’s about thirty miles from the airport to the city of Moscow, and
the road and the trees and the drivers could have been people from
Northern Westchester in late winter, except I couldn’t read any of
the signs. We would pass from time to time incredibly beautiful, old,
uncared for Russian-Orthodox-style houses, with gorgeous painted
wooden colors and outlined ornate windows. Some of them were

almost falling down. But there was a large ornate richness about the
landscape and architecture on the outskirts of Moscow, even in its
grey winter, that seemed to tell me immediately that I was not at
home.
I stayed at the Hotel Younnost, which is one of the international
hotels in Moscow. The room was a square studio affair with
Hollywood bed couches, and a huge picture window looking
towards the National Stadium, over a railroad bridge, with a very
imposing view of the University buildings against the skyline. But
everything was so reminiscent of New York in winter that even as I
sat at 9:30 P.M. after dinner, writing, looking through the blinds,
there was the sound of a train and light on the skyline, and every
now and then the tail lights of an auto curving around between the
railroad bridge and the hotel. And it felt like a hundred nights that I
remembered along Riverside Drive, except that just on the edge of
the picture was the golden onion-shaped dome of a Russian
Orthodox church.
Before dinner I took a short walk. It was already growing dark,
but down the street from the hotel was the Stadium stop on the
Metro, which is a subway. I walked down there and into the Metro
station and I stood in front of the escalators for awhile just watching
the faces of the people coming and going. It felt like instant 14th
Street of my childhood, before Blacks and Latins colored New York,
except everyone was much more orderly and the whole place
seemed much less crowded. The thing that was really strangest of all
for the ten minutes that I stood there was that there were no Black
people. And the token collector and the station manager were
women. The station was very large and very beautiful and very
clean — shockingly, strikingly, enjoyably clean. The whole station
looked like a theater lobby — bright brass and mosaics and shining
chandeliers. Even when they were rushing, and in Moscow there’s
always a kind of rush, people lack the desperation of New York. One
thing that characterized all of these people was a pleasantness in
their faces, a willingness to smile, at least at me, a stranger. It was a
strange contrast to the grimness of the weather.

There are some Black people around the hotel and I inquired of
Helen about the Patrice Lumumba University. This is a university
located in Moscow for students from African countries. There were
many Africans in and around the hotel when I got back from the
Metro station and I think many of them were here for the
Conference. Interestingly enough, most of them speak Russian and I
don’t. When I went downstairs to dinner, I almost quailed in front of
the linguistic task because I could not even find out where I was
supposed to sit, or whether I should wait to be seated. Whenever the
alphabet is unfamiliar, there are absolutely no cues to a foreign
language. A young Black man swaggered across my eyesight with
that particular swagger of fine, young Black men wanting to be
noticed and I said, “Do you speak English?” “Yes,” he said and
started walking very rapidly away from me. So I walked back to him
and when I tried to ask him whether I should sit down or wait to be
seated, I realized the poor boy did not understand a word that I
said. At that point I pulled out my two trusty phrase books and
proceeded to order myself a very delicious dinner of white wine,
boiled fish soup that was lemon piquant, olive rich, and fresh
mackerel, delicate, grilled sturgeon with pickled sauce, bread, and
even a glass of tea. All of this was made possible by great tenacity
and daring on my part, and the smiling forebearance of a very
helpful waiter who brought out one of the cooks from the kitchen to
help with the task of deciphering my desires.

II
It’s very cold in Moscow. The day I arrived it snowed in the
morning and it snowed again today, and this is September 16th. My
guide, Helen, put her finger on it very accurately. She said that life
in Moscow is a constant fight against the cold weather, and that
living is only a triumph against death by freezing. Maybe because of
the cold, or maybe because of the shortage of food in the war years,
but everyone eats an enormous amount here. Tonight, because of a
slight error on the part of the waitress, Helen had two dinners and
thought very little about eating them both. And no one is terribly
fat, but I think that has a good deal to do with the weather. We had
wine at dinner tonight, and wine seems to be used a lot to loosen up
one’s tongue. It almost seems a prescription. At every dinner meal
there are always three glasses: one for water, one for wine, and one
for vodka, which flows like water, and with apparently as little
effect upon Russians.
A group from the conference with our Intourist guides went
sightseeing today. It’s hard to believe that today’s Sunday because
the whole city seems so full of weekday life, so intent on its own
purposes, that it makes the week seem extended by an extra day.

this country it appears that everything is seen in terms of food. That

is, the labor of one’s hands is measured by how much food you can

produce, and then you take that and compare its importance to the

worth of the other work that you do. Some men and women spend

their whole lives, for instance, learning and doing the infinitely slow

and patient handwork of retouching Persian Blue tiles down in

Samarkand to restore the ancient mausoleums. It is considered very

precious work. But antiquities have a particular value, whereas

carrying someone else’s bag does not have a very high priority

because it is not very productive either of beauty or worth. If you

can’t manage it, then that’s another story. I find it a very interesting

concept.

It’s about thirty miles from the airport to the city of Moscow, and

the road and the trees and the drivers could have been people from

Northern Westchester in late winter, except I couldn’t read any of

the signs. We would pass from time to time incredibly beautiful, old,

uncared for Russian-Orthodox-style houses, with gorgeous painted

wooden colors and outlined ornate windows. Some of them were

almost falling down. But there was a large ornate richness about the

landscape and architecture on the outskirts of Moscow, even in its

grey winter, that seemed to tell me immediately that I was not at

home.

I stayed at the Hotel Younnost, which is one of the international

hotels in Moscow. The room was a square studio affair with

Hollywood bed couches, and a huge picture window looking

towards the National Stadium, over a railroad bridge, with a very

imposing view of the University buildings against the skyline. But

everything was so reminiscent of New York in winter that even as I

sat at 9:30 P.M. after dinner, writing, looking through the blinds,

there was the sound of a train and light on the skyline, and every

now and then the tail lights of an auto curving around between the

railroad bridge and the hotel. And it felt like a hundred nights that I

remembered along Riverside Drive, except that just on the edge of

the picture was the golden onion-shaped dome of a Russian

Orthodox church.

Before dinner I took a short walk. It was already growing dark,

but down the street from the hotel was the Stadium stop on the

Metro, which is a subway. I walked down there and into the Metro

station and I stood in front of the escalators for awhile just watching

the faces of the people coming and going. It felt like instant 14th

Street of my childhood, before Blacks and Latins colored New York,

except everyone was much more orderly and the whole place

seemed much less crowded. The thing that was really strangest of all

for the ten minutes that I stood there was that there were no Black

people. And the token collector and the station manager were

women. The station was very large and very beautiful and very

clean — shockingly, strikingly, enjoyably clean. The whole station

looked like a theater lobby — bright brass and mosaics and shining

chandeliers. Even when they were rushing, and in Moscow there’s

always a kind of rush, people lack the desperation of New York. One

thing that characterized all of these people was a pleasantness in

their faces, a willingness to smile, at least at me, a stranger. It was a

strange contrast to the grimness of the weather.

There are some Black people around the hotel and I inquired of

Helen about the Patrice Lumumba University. This is a university

located in Moscow for students from African countries. There were

many Africans in and around the hotel when I got back from the

Metro station and I think many of them were here for the

Conference. Interestingly enough, most of them speak Russian and I

don’t. When I went downstairs to dinner, I almost quailed in front of

the linguistic task because I could not even find out where I was

supposed to sit, or whether I should wait to be seated. Whenever the

alphabet is unfamiliar, there are absolutely no cues to a foreign

language. A young Black man swaggered across my eyesight with

that particular swagger of fine, young Black men wanting to be

noticed and I said, “Do you speak English?” “Yes,” he said and

started walking very rapidly away from me. So I walked back to him

and when I tried to ask him whether I should sit down or wait to be

seated, I realized the poor boy did not understand a word that I

said. At that point I pulled out my two trusty phrase books and

proceeded to order myself a very delicious dinner of white wine,

boiled fish soup that was lemon piquant, olive rich, and fresh

mackerel, delicate, grilled sturgeon with pickled sauce, bread, and

even a glass of tea. All of this was made possible by great tenacity

and daring on my part, and the smiling forebearance of a very

helpful waiter who brought out one of the cooks from the kitchen to

help with the task of deciphering my desires.

II

It’s very cold in Moscow. The day I arrived it snowed in the

morning and it snowed again today, and this is September 16th. My

guide, Helen, put her finger on it very accurately. She said that life

in Moscow is a constant fight against the cold weather, and that

living is only a triumph against death by freezing. Maybe because of

the cold, or maybe because of the shortage of food in the war years,

but everyone eats an enormous amount here. Tonight, because of a

slight error on the part of the waitress, Helen had two dinners and

thought very little about eating them both. And no one is terribly

fat, but I think that has a good deal to do with the weather. We had

wine at dinner tonight, and wine seems to be used a lot to loosen up

one’s tongue. It almost seems a prescription. At every dinner meal

there are always three glasses: one for water, one for wine, and one

for vodka, which flows like water, and with apparently as little

effect upon Russians.

A group from the conference with our Intourist guides went

sightseeing today. It’s hard to believe that today’s Sunday because

the whole city seems so full of weekday life, so intent on its own

purposes, that it makes the week seem extended by an extra day.