I was sprawled out on my living room couch starting the second book of the Hunger Games Trilogy when I heard the screams from upstairs.

“We are going Upstate for New Years.”

“What? Why? Mom!”

“Vso. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“But I told you that I wanted to go to Alex’s party.”

“Well, I already paid for the trip.”

“Why did you plan it in the first place when I had told you about the party weeks ago? MOM!”

The tension upstairs continued to heighten until my sister, Melissa, finally stormed out of my mother’s bedroom and slammed her door shut, her vociferous screams still ringing in my ears. This wasn’t the first time my mother had pulled something like this, and it sure wouldn’t be the last. Though I felt awful for Melissa, I was grateful that, at least this time, she was the one getting the short end of the stick and not I.

My mom is known for doing things irrationally. No one in my family understands why she acts this way, but, since we are all just as guilty of it (you should meet my aunt, oh my God), we try not to question her. Of course, sometimes, it can really get under your skin.

I picked my lazy self up off of the couch and sprinted up the stairs to try to convince my mom to never pull something like this again (wasn’t I ambitious?). It wasn’t fair for my mom to have planned a trip after Melissa said she wanted to go to a party but, come on, my sister should have seen this coming. Going away for New Years is a tradition in my family. We do it every year to celebrate the holiday. Most American families celebrate Christmas over winter break, but, since my Jewish heritage rules out that option, my family treats New Years as the cream of the crop: the biggest holiday to E-V-E-R exist!

It’s really a Russian thing. New Years is HUGE in Russia. You should see what goes on over there. They throw concerts every night for a week straight with performances from Serduchka and Pugacheva who sing the same three songs over and over again (though my mom insists they are different). They drink and dance through the night on the streets, in clubs, in bars, at each other’s houses, in concert halls while fireworks blaze through the skies. It’s pretty spectacular. Of course, the Russian immigrants can’t do those things here in America, but they try their best to replicate the entertainment.

Our version of celebrating New Years is a little different. Every year my family and our friends travel up north (Maine, New Hampshire, etc), rent out a house, ski, snowboard, go tubing, and throw ourselves a party on New Years Eve. We pick a theme, play games, and each family is in charge of putting on a show (a story, a skit, a song, etc). Then we watch the ball drop in Times Square on the television and the adults sip champagne as the clock strikes midnight (well, maybe a little while before it hits midnight ... and every moment after midnight). In short, it’s the ultimate family bonding experience.

Except this year it wasn’t going to be like that at all because when I asked my mom for more information on the trip, she casually mentioned that we weren’t going skiing this year, our usual company wasn’t coming with us, and, worst of all, we weren’t renting out a house. Instead, we would be staying at a hotel rented out by the “Willow Tour Group”, or in other words, the Russian-Immigrants-Unite Travel Agency.

“What is that?” I asked her.

“It’s this company that books a hotel for all of it guests and throws a party for them over New Years.”

“Mom, I don’t want to celebrate New Years with some Russian Tour Group. I hate Russians.”

Now, I know I just told you how fun and lively Russian people can be, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t inherently flawed. It’s hard to describe the level of sheer insanity that simply listening to conversations between Russians can drive you to but , believe me, Russians can make your eyes roll so profusely that, if you’re not careful, they might potentially pop out of your sockets. Spending four days surrounded by Russian Culture? No shred of diversity in sight? Their manly voices laughing and speaking a mix of coherent words and absolute gibberish into my ears?

I would rather be dead.

“You’ll enjoy yourself,” she said in that tone that meant I’m done discussing this. And she was done. So, I shut my mouth and mentally prepared myself for the torture that was to come.

-----


And that torture hit with the same whipping force of the tornado from The Wizard of Oz (the muppets remake, not the original). Let me set the scene for you.

I was on my bed finishing up Catching Fire when my mom burst through the door, screaming with the shock and outright hysteria of a teenage girl who just found out the lead singer of her favorite band was retiring.

“Ellachka, why aren’t you dressed yet?! We have to be in the Main Hall in an hour!”

“Exactly, an hour. That’s plenty of time. All I have to do is put on my clothes.”

“But what about your makeup? Thvayee volisi can’t be in a ponytail, you have to straighten them!”

“Mom, I will dress up when I want to,” I looked up from my book. “And, frankly, I don’t care how I look because who am I dressing up for anyway?” I finished my words off with a good stare so that she could really feel the burn of my comment. I didn’t mean to be so rude; it just came out.

Let me justify my attitude. The entire week before we left to the middle of (snow)where, my mom tried to convince me that I was going to have loads of fun at this hotel because all of the parents were bringing their kids who were of my age (note, “my age” ranges from 10 to 25 years old). Yes, we weren’t going to have time to ski in the snow and we weren’t going to spend New Years with the extended family, but my mother was confident that it was going to be just as amazing as every other New Years (maybe even more so!). My brain knew she had no idea what she was talking about, but my hopeful heart so desperately wanted to believe that I was going to enjoy myself at this Russians-Rejoice Center that I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the week. It’s safe to say that my brain won a gold medal that day we arrived Upstate. When we entered the dining hall of the hotel, it was made so clear to everyone in my family that this had been a complete mistake when we saw people of every age group sitting at their tables, laughing and enjoying their lunch, except for “my age” group. The look on my mom’s face was priceless.

So, I spent the next two days locked up in my hotel room reading my book because there was nothing else for me to do. My sister had found a group of older boys to keep her company so I had no one to hang out with. My mom periodically reminded me of the activities going on in the hotel, but she failed to realize that I didn’t care to participate in any of them. 7 A.M. yoga classes? Salsa lessons (with 60-year-old men, mind you) taught by Sergey the Magnificent? The 4 o’clock “Jam Session” (don’t forget the thick russian accent on “Jam”) with the other 8-year-olds? You’re kidding me, right?

I resorted to taking on the life of a hermit, happily eating my pretzel sticks in my room while downstairs ABBA songs were blasting and everyone was eating blinchiki with caviar and casually downing another shot of Grey Goose. Unfortunately, my solitude only lasted until my mom finally disturbed me on New Years Eve.

After staying locked in my room for another 40 minutes (30 spent reading, the other 10 wasted purely on principle), I put on my black cocktail dress, let down my hair, and joined my family in the living room. My mother was rocking sapphire tonight. The gemstones on her necklace crowded her bosom and hung well into her low-cut dress. The bottom expanded out like a true ball gown and every inch of fabric was embellished with sparkles. My dad looked equally divine in his suit (and that’s as much as I can tell you about my dad’s attire because, to be honest, menswear all looks the same to me). In brief, they looked gorgeously overdressed, and I, even in my simple little black fit-and-flare, felt like we would receive far more attention than I would be comfortable with. How silly of me.

When we arrived in the main hall, I saw dresses that could stop John Galliano straight in his tracks. Women were dressed in everything ranging from extravagant to absolutely ridiculous outfits. I saw hats with diameters larger than their owner’s body width. I saw women in dresses whose trains had their own trains and then the polar opposite in women whose dresses covered one-eighth of their skin and squeezed that portion until it was on the brink of exploding. And the strangest thing was that everyone thought this was normal. I had foolishly forgotten that the phrase “too much” didn’t have a Russian translation. Despite the pain my eyes had to endure from all of the shimmering outfits, at least no one was looking at me.

I picked at the plates of appetizers that the waiters carried through the hall, and I almost jumped for joy when I saw the mini pizza bagels make their way onto the center table. (I was so sick of salmon tartar.) Beer and wine lined the walls and the just-turned-21-year-olds were nonchalantly grabbing a glass every few minutes or so (but who was counting, really?). While their mental faculties were quickly depleting, so was my tolerance of the whole situation. I felt awkward because I didn’t know anyone, and the lace of my dress was biting at areas of my back that I was physically incapable of scratching. I missed the way we used to spend New Years. I wished I was in sweatpants and a hoodie sitting in a cozy three-bedroom lodge watching my cousins reenact a scene from Bremenskie Muzikanti, their clever lyrics making up for their tone-deaf ears. It didn’t matter that I didn’t really speak or understand Russian because I could just ask my mom to translate the words for me. Sometimes, they would make the skits in English or simplify the Russian to accommodate me. Here, I felt outcasted and out of place because everything was so Russian, and I was so not.

And then my thoughts were rudely interrupted by my aunt, Fiona, (the only person not in my immediate family who had joined us on the trip) who rushed over to me, grabbed me by the arm, and swung me into a small dressing room where a bunch of men and women were changing into outrageous costumes. I took a minute to assess the activities happening before me. In one corner of the room, my dad and three other men were cross-dressed in wigs and tutus and choreographing some sort of comical dance routine. One tall rugged fellow, who was drunk as a skunk, was dressed as Ali Baba and, boy, was he getting into character (though his wife didn’t seem to mind that he was hitting on my mother, who, by the way, was dressed as a stereotypical Ukrainian woman). Behind me, my sister and one of the 17-year-olds that I had managed to encounter during my stay were changing into belly dancing costumes covered in jewels and bangles. They were supposed to be Ali Baba’s two wives. A few other woman and men were dressed as gypsies, scarves and floral patterns filling their side of the room. The head of this catastrophe was a small middle aged woman named Sveta who was trying to give everyone directions, but the laughter in the room overpowered her voice.

Out of nowhere, I was thrown a red and gold outfit and was told (by what I could understand of Sveta’s Russian) that I was to be the third wife of Ali Baba. I put on the costume, but I didn’t actually know what I was supposed to be doing. Before I could be given proper instructions, Sveta exited the room and went to the center of the hall. I peered out of the door and saw all of the guests sitting on one side of the room facing the dance floor or, for our purposes, the stage. I finally understood what was going on.

We were putting on a show.

I should’ve been grateful, right? This is what I had been wanting since the beginning. Except it wasn’t the same because, instead of writing a script beforehand and putting on a show in the comfort of my home amongst family members, I was about to perform impromptu in front of a hundred judgmental Russians who were expecting perfection. And I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be doing!

DJ Durak turned on some Arabian music which cued the beginning of the act. Sveta sent Ali Baba out the door. With his arms hanging strongly by his side and his chest puffed out, the dirtbag left the dressing room and took long, powerful steps towards Sveta. The crowd cheered him on as he walked the perimeter of the stage, milking the attention. Sveta finally gained control of him and sat him down on a chair. It was time for the wives to come out.

“Y shas, zheni vidit y oni budit thansavat!”

My heart stopped.

“Now the wives will come out and dance!” was the translation and that last word was what paralyzed every bone in my body. I didn’t want to dance. I can’t dance. I’m not trained, I have no sense of rhythm, and I wasn’t about to prove that to an audience of Russians.

Russians can’t really dance either, but they seem to think they can. Even if you are lucky enough to come across a Russian who is wary of his/her lack of dance talent, there are a few signature dance moves that Russians learn at birth and are always acceptable at any Russian gathering. The first move consists of your hands outstretched, your elbows slightly bent, and your fingers artistically curved down. From here, you can move your body and/or legs in anyway you wish as long as your arms are in this setup. Usually, Russians just step to the rhythm of the song in this position. The second move is a kind of jig. Your arms come in, you squeeze your fists, and then you shake your butt up and down like a little bunny. The moves only get stupider from there, but they are the basics for Russian dancing.

Except, I was too petrified to remember any of these go-to moves, and as I watched my sister, a natural dancer, and the other girl, a trained dancer, fill the crowd with glee, I almost soiled my costume. It was my turn, and I couldn’t do it.

Someone pushed me out of the room and I felt the spotlight hit my head. Everyone was expecting me to do something. I put my arms up and started taking steps toward the stage. I saw my mom at the corner of the dance floor. I made my way to the center. I wiggled around for a few seconds, did a turn, looked my mom straight in the eyes, gave her a death glare, and then turned back to the audience with my fake smile back and spread wide across my face. I danced for a total of 10 seconds while my sister and the other girl had danced for a good 30. Then I made my way to my seat on the stage. It was over. I had done it. And no one had laughed. In fact, I think I heard cheering.

With the attention no longer on me, I started actually paying attention to the show. Even though I didn’t understand some of the plot, I couldn’t say it was awful. My dad and two of the crossed-dressed men came out after my performance. They skipped down the hall with their hands interlocked, their beer bellies making it awfully difficult to hold on to each other. They let go of each other. My dad grabbed the leg of one of the men while the third guy held the man’s hands. They started spinning the man around and he looked like a fat ballerina playing the lead in Swan Lake. For their grand finale, they huddled into a circle, intertwined their hands, and stood there while the fourth guy came running out and jumped straight into their arms. We all held our breath, thinking they were going to drop him, but the move was executed perfectly (well, as perfectly as a group of untrained 50-year-old men could execute it). Then the gypsies ran around the stage with their scarves flying behind them and Sveta sang a classic Russian song. The room was filled with joyful music and smiling faces. I even caught myself smiling a few times.

After the show, it was time for dinner. Midnight was nearing. We entered the dining hall and found our table. It was chock-full of Russian delicacies. There were freshly baked boolki with red and black caviar. There were fried potatoes, steamed potatoes, and baked potatoes with sides of onion and cilodka which reeked of the sea. There were pickled tomatoes, pickled cabbages, pickled olives, pickled (you guessed it) pickles: pickled everything. I didn’t particularly like any of the foods before me, but they reminded me of home which was comforting. I chewed on the breads and tasted the different types of butter on the table: salted, unsalted, whipped. (I LOVE butter.) We had twenty minutes before the clock struck twelve and I was too busy enjoying my dinner to remember to sulk and complain about how much I hated this place. I could feel my mom smiling, not because of the atmosphere, but because she knew, even though I was reluctant to admit it, that I was finally enjoying myself.

The entertainment commenced again when one of the staff members came out (cross-dressed, of course) as Serduchka, the famous Russian singer (known for dressing up as a woman even though he’s a man), and started lip-syncing his songs. He ran around the tables of the dining hall wearing a scintillating silver outfit and a pair of thin 6-inch heels (how did he do that? I can’t even wear wedges). His performance was so captivating that, before we even knew it, it was 11:59 P.M. The flat screen television on the wall was showing the chaos in Times Square. We counted down the ball drop, and when the clock hit midnight, balloons and confetti filled the room as couples gave each other a New Years kiss. I blew into my party horn and set off a wave of kazoo sounds through the hall. I didn’t realize how much I was smiling until my cheeks started to burn.

Though I’m naturally stubborn, I have to give it to my mom. I didn’t start having fun until the end of the trip, but those last few moments before midnight were exactly what they needed to be to make it a true New Years party. It definitely wasn’t the best New Years I’ve ever had. I still felt very out of place when I looked around and saw exactly how many Russian people were standing next to me. Russian people still get under my skin (and claw at it until I bleed), but, without them, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I hate some Russians and I love others, but that’s perfectly okay because every person feels that way about their family. So, no matter where or with whom I celebrate New Years, I know that it will only ever feel like New Years if I am surrounded and bombarded by Russians.