Vitebsk: Guia de viagem, preços e alojamento gratuito · 2026

NBNatasha Belyaeva24 de nov. de 2015Ler

Perhaps, if we don't count road trips to Crimea, I have never traveled anywhere as long as I did to my American destination – the tiny resort town of Bethany Beach on the East Coast of the States. 3 hours by car from my native Vitebsk to Minsk, 1 hour flight from Minsk airport to Moscow, a 6-hour layover at Sheremetyevo, a 9-hour flight to New York, an 8-hour wait for a transfer at JFK, and finally, 4 final hours – and I was there: the guys from E-Point delivered me right to the door of my new "home". But (!) all these seemingly endless periods of waiting for "weather by the sea," honestly, were worth the two short takeoffs and landings of the plane. I can wait indefinitely just to feel that funny numbness in my arms and legs again when the roaring giant rises into the air and smoothly descends onto the runway. You sit there, eyes squeezed shut, pressed into your seat, and your heart is pounding like crazy – you are completely seized by some whirlwind of anticipation for something new, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. What will it be like in an unfamiliar country? How will I be there? Will I manage? The stream of questions attacking the consciousness is endless. Favorite songs in my ears, in the backpack under my feet, a camera, a couple of books, a fresh Kinfolk, and a bag of coconut-covered nuts (you can only find those at home – it's a fact) – full "combat" readiness. I have a favorite battered notebook with sketches, dialogues for oral practice classes, to-do lists, and some notes so I wouldn't forget – this thing has been with me for more than one year and more than one trip. On the first page, there is a clumsy inscription in pencil – my peculiar motto, my state of mind: Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe. Because it really is so, Anatole France didn't lie, guys. Only in travels do we find ourselves, so at any convenient opportunity – I pack my backpack and set off on the road. To meet everything.

NBNatasha Belyaeva23 de nov. de 2015Ler

I tried to make my summer of 2014 as diverse as possible: I spent a month working as a kindergarten teacher, a month sunbathing at the dacha, and at the very end of the season, my mom and I took a couple of weeks to visit the rocky Crimea. I greeted September happy, tanned, and rested. Perhaps everything happens for a reason. Perhaps it had to be this way. On September 9, 2014, I turned 20. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and parents—everyone decided that money would be a better gift for such a grown-up young lady than some useless things that would just gather dust on a shelf. So, after this important calendar date, a fairly solid sum was added to my hard-earned pennies from the kindergarten, and I thought that if I tightened my belt and saved on chocolate bars during the school year, my American dream could still come true in the summer of 2015. I decided not to tell my dad about my plans (he had already suffered enough), but I shared my intentions with my mom: she agreed to help financially. After some time, my grandmother was also let in on our secret, and thus we formed a small, secret, female family community that worked very smoothly right up until my trip to the States. In early October 2015, my friend and I were walking through the streets of Minsk to the local office with the necessary package of documents for the program and excitedly making plans for the upcoming summer. At the office on Maksim Tank Street, we were met by a friendly girl who immediately asked which universities we were students at. Since I was a student at a language university in Vitebsk at the time, and my friend had already participated in international exchange programs, we didn't have to take an English test—they took our word for it that we knew the language. We explained why we wanted to participate in the program, what we expected from it, and asked the friendly office worker 1001 questions—we received 1001 detailed answers and a couple of useful recommendations from her, reviewed the terms of the program participation agreement, signed it, paid the first installment at the bank that same day, and in the evening, we celebrated the first step toward success in one of the central coffee shops in Minsk. Months flew by rapidly. We googled places we wanted to see in the States, looked for music festivals that were supposed to be held there during the summer—we planned, changed plans a thousand times, built new ones—we were completely absorbed by the upcoming adventures. Finding Job Offers was not time-consuming or exhausting for us: friends who had been to the States many times through Work and Travel contacted their employer, who agreed to take us onto their team. "Baja Beach House Grill", Bethany Beach, Delaware, hello! We continued to march toward success. There was very little left to do. In mid-March, with backpacks on our shoulders, we were riding the night bus Vitebsk-Moscow to take the final step on the way to the States—to get American visas. At 6 a.m., we were somewhere on the outskirts of the metropolis, and at 8 a.m., we were having breakfast in an empty diner near the Barrikadnaya metro station. We were terribly nervous. For the hundredth time, I was reciting to myself the 6 points of my rights from the American Pamphlet, and my Masha was scanning the list of approximate questions asked by consuls during the interview. Believe me, even if you have perfect English and you know your rights in the States so well that if someone woke you up at night, you would rattle them off without a single stutter, you won't be able to hide from the trembling in your knees and the "twists" in your stomach before the interview—everyone goes through this. At 9, we were shaking in front of the consulate doors, singing lines from The White Stripes – Seven Nation Army (this was a kind of anthem for our day): "I'm gonna fight 'em all. A seven nation army couldn't hold me back." At 9:30, the guard let us inside. After passing through numerous windows,

NBNatasha Belyaeva23 de nov. de 2015Ler

My first attempt to break out to the States ended in failure. The agency we applied to with my friend, to whom we honestly paid both the first and second program installments, suddenly closed down. Those who have gone through the process of gathering all the paperwork for a trip to the States and finally found that coveted Job Offer, those who know what it costs, will surely understand the hurricane of emotions we experienced when we found out that all our efforts and hopes had gone down the drain. To say I was upset is an understatement. I remember it like it was yesterday: I sniffled, sat on the sofa, and started racking my brain on how to "break the news" to my dad, who was the main sponsor of my failed trip. The hope that the program money would still be returned to us was still flickering in the depths of my soul, so I explained to him as confidently as possible: "Dad, they'll return everything, every penny, I swear, they promised, so why have any doubts? We just need to wait, just wait! And if they don't, I'll just go work somewhere in my hometown of Vitebsk this summer, no big deal." Dad listened to my carefully prepared speech and said he didn't believe in such things, advising me to prepare for a Belarusian summer at the dacha: a lake instead of an ocean, draniki instead of burgers, organic strawberries, blueberries, eggs (everything is organic: grandma = quality guarantee), quiet family gatherings instead of noisy American parties, bike trips to nearby spots instead of weekends in Washington or cozy Philly – was this what I had dreamed of for so long, was this what I had been preparing for all year? But, as they say, things happen. Nothing you can do about it. Photos from the archive of that very "dacha" summer (June-July 2014, film and digital) "Grandpa, let's take a selfie!" - "What's that?" - "Just smile!" To cut a long story short, my hopes of getting back dad's hard-earned $1000+ were not meant to be; the theory that elders are always right proved true once again – we didn't get back either the first or the second program installment. I accepted this as a fact that needed to be pushed out of my head as quickly as possible – we were sad for a bit and then forgot about it. How did Turgenev put it? "We'll fight again, damn it!" Yes!

NBNatasha Belyaeva23 de nov. de 2015Ler

My first attempt to break away to the States ended in failure. The agency we applied to with my friend, to which we honestly paid both the first and second program installments, suddenly closed down. Those who have gone through the process of collecting all the paperwork for a trip to the States and finally found that coveted Job Offer, those who know what it costs, will surely understand the hurricane of emotions we experienced when we found out that all our efforts and hopes had gone down the drain. To say I was upset is an understatement. I remember it like it was yesterday: I sniffled, sat on the sofa, and started racking my brain on how to "break the news" to my dad, who was the main sponsor of my failed trip. The hope that the program money would still be returned to us was still flickering deep in my soul, so I explained to him as confidently as possible: "Dad, they'll return everything, every last cent, I swear, they promised, so why have any doubts? We just need to wait, just wait! And if they don't, I'll just go work somewhere in my hometown of Vitebsk this summer, no big deal." Dad listened to my carefully prepared speech and said he didn't believe in such things, advising me to prepare for a Belarusian summer at the dacha: a lake instead of the ocean, draniki instead of burgers, organic strawberries, blueberries, eggs (everything is organic: grandma = quality guarantee), quiet family gatherings instead of noisy American parties, bike rides to nearby spots instead of weekends in Washington or cozy Philly – was this what I had dreamed of for so long, was this what I had been preparing for all year? But, as they say, things happen. Nothing you can do about it. Photos from the archive of that very "dacha" summer (June-July 2014, film and digital) "Grandpa, let's take a selfie!" - "What's that?" - "Just smile!" To cut a long story short, my hopes of getting back dad's hard-earned $1000+ were not meant to be; the theory that elders are always right proved true once again – we didn't get back either the first or the second program installment. I accepted this as a fact that needed to be pushed out of my head as quickly as possible – we were sad, and then we moved on. How did Turgenev put it? "We'll fight yet, damn it!" Yes!