Raindrops on Roses

When the VonTrapp children were scared by a thunderstorm, Maria sang "My Favorite Things" to them as a way of dispelling their worries. I hope the same tactic will work on a gloomy Russian Thanksgiving day. Rain. Clouds. Mud. Dark. Blech. I've been chased by the shadow of a bad mood for a time now. I can't discuss many of the reasons because they involve other people whose business is not mine to share. Suffice it to say, there is plenty of suffering to go around and I'm grieving with those that grieve. The perpetual rain storm a'la Portland is not helping. Being far away from home at the holidays often makes the days feel long. Every time I receive one of those family emails directed to a bulk mailing list inviting me to the Messiah sing-in or a Christmas party 7,000 miles away, my heart dies a little. A reminder of how not-normal my life is. Time to trot out my favorite things so then I won't feel so bad. What do I love, besides my family, my church and my country? Let's keep this more mindless and shallow, shall we? 1. Waffle cookies. I forgot how much I love waffle cookies until, in my new church calling as nursery leader, I was handed a bag of Russian waffle cookies because one of my regulars, a beautiful young lady named Aviana, loves them. Those light crunchy layers, the sweet creamy filling. Yum. 2. Ugg boots. I have written before about Ugg boots. I love my sheepskin lined warmth for the toesies Ugg boots. I will probably never be able to wear cute Manolos or high-heeled, high fashion drama pumps without crippling myself, but Uggs make me happy. 3. Celebrity gossip. Can't wait for Lindsey Lohan to go Britney Spears. 4.Twinkle lights. They can make an otherwise desolate, lonely looking Russian birch tree look magical. 5. Finding something rare at the grocery store. Found fresh sage, sweet potatoes and fresh cranberries at the store in the last two weeks. :happy dance: 6. Being a nursery leader at church. One of my two church jobs, I take care of 18 month to 2 year old children for two hours every Sunday. I love the kids and I love the job. Life is great when all it takes to make you happy is a nap and some matchbox cars. 7. Books. Priorities are: reading, breathing, eating. 8. Laughing. I've been watching "The Big Bang Theory" sitcom on DVD. My friend Bethany is a PA to one of the producers. I've watched some episodes four times. Laughed. I watched Friends' "The One with all the Thanksgiving Flashbacks" yesterday. Laughed. 9. Nice people. The new mission president invited us for a Thanksgiving meal--that I don't have to cook. I needed someone to be nice to my family today and the invitation was heaven sent. My neighbor has offered to help look after my twin girls when I go to Boston in two weeks. Abby is going to Lindsey's apartment by school. Heaven sent. My sister Julie is hosting my twenty year old daughter over the weekend. I don't worry about Sara being lonely if she is with Julie. Heaven sent. My friend Bethany burns TV shows to DVD from her TiVo and mails them to Russia. Heaven sent. 10. Sleeping in. Thanksgiving prep for Saturday means I will not be sleeping in much. However, there is nothing like waking up when you feel like it. Without an alarm clock playing nasty Russian techno music. There. I came up with ten. No white copper kettles or warm woolen mittens, but I know I'm blessed.

In the Land of the White Witch

I dreamed that I was attacked by a Russian woman in the Rosinka sauna. She was smoking cigarettes and allowing her child to run wild. I told her to put out her cigarette or I'd report her to management. She refused. I marched out into the locker room, prepared to go to the sports center management. She tripped me. I fell and broke my arm. Rosinka paid for my medical bills at the European Medical Center and offered me meals delivered to my house from the Rosinka restaurant. I told them that the smoking woman should pay. They told me she was the wife of a rich client and they would rather take care of me so I wouldn't cause any trouble.

I woke up from this dream at 3AM. The light from Parry's computer screen combined with the street lighting from the road outside our Istanbul apartment bothered me. I took my blanket, my pillow and stalked into the living room to sleep on the futon couch. I fell back asleep until the call to prayer woke me up at 5:30AM. By the end of our trip, hearing that eerie voice out of the darkness stopped scaring me and started being a comfort.

I slept until 7AM. Woke the twins up to take them Cemberlitas Hamam, the Turkish bath. It was raining. The old man at the desk had no clue what to do with three American ladies at 8AM. Much confusion ensued. The black stretchy panties they give to all their clients were not forthcoming. They barely got their bath attendant coupon. There was more confusion. Finally I marched them back to the waiting room and got them going. While the twins were being scrubbed, we (Parry, me, Abby) went over the Galeta Bridge to the baklava place in Karakoy for the third time in three days. This is supposedly the best baklava in Istanbul. As usual, the food was delicious but I had had so many trips to baklava, Turkish Delight and tourist shops that I was sick of standing there and pointing for what I wanted. The first time I went to the baklava place, I specifically said "No no no walnuts!" (I'm allergic) but he loaded my box with like five pieces of walnut baklava. Good thing I'm the only one in the family with walnut issues. I let Parry duke it out with the baklava people. The things we do for our children on the last day of vacation. Allyson wants evil eye tea cups, Abby wants chocolate baklava, I want there to be no stress on the way home. Everything went as might be expected for the next few hours, except the rain which was persistent and annoying, until it came time for our taxi to show. The day we arrived, Mehmet, our host's representative, stood in our flat and wrote out all the information for ordering our transfer to the airport. He said to me, "Wednesday, 11:30, right?" "Right," I said. Something about Mehmet worried me. People on Trip Advisor were all, "Mehmet was soooo great." I wasn't so sure. Guess what. No taxi. We waited. No taxi. At 11:45, knowing that old city Sultanhamet traffic is a nightmare, I dispatched Parry to the craft shop owned by our apartment owner's cousin/brother/relative. We sat for awhile. Watched the rain. Watched the weathered geezer across the street drink Turkish coffee and smoke. Noon passed by. No Parry. No taxi. At this point I am having flashbacks to every travel nightmare I have had in my life. I am plotting on how I can get my hands on anti-anxiety medication and wondering if I still am in the dream with the Russian woman and this is her revenge. About 10 minutes later Parry showed up with a handsome older Turkish man in smart clothing. They were engaged in deep conversation. The older man owned the craft shop. No clue where our apartment owner was, brother of craft shop owner. He wanted to make sure that we weren't stranded so he walked with Parry from his store to our building. The jist? Mehmet, bless his pointed head, scheduled our taxi for Thursday. Which makes so much sense considering that we only paid to stay at the apartments through Tuesday night! I thought about writing something mean on Trip Advisor but didn't want to send that bad karma out into the world. Our taxi showed up. We drove to the airport behind water trucks, garbage trucks and hundreds of Turkish laborers pushing their wares in carts and carrying big baggage on their backs. When we escaped Sultanhamet, traffic was at a standstill. And it was raining. And my head hurt. Yes. We arrived at the airport. We were probably among the last people to check in. I was in the last seat, on the last row of an Aeroflot flight. Behind 40 Japanese tourists coming to Moscow. In almost any country in the world, being behind Asian tourists is not a big deal. In Moscow, when you see Asians heading for the passport line, you RUN to beat them there. Russian immigration authorities are bigots and ethnically profile all Asians. Never mind that these are all seasoned, elite travelers coming to spend big money and tour their country. All Asian looking people are potential illegal immigrants stealing jobs from honest Russians. The harrassment is legendary. I've heard horror stories from parents chaperoning school trips--my husband's Chinese-American colleagues from the Intel-US offices have been threatened by the police. And here I am, the only American in the last 15 rows of the plane (all my family were in the front part) behind a herd of Asians. I hope when Russians go to places like China, Japan, and Korea that the immigration people in those countries torment the Russians and make them twist in the wind. I know the British always mess with the Russians at Heathrow passport control. They have a wary look in their eye until we approach, show them our US passports and then we're all best buddies. But the Russians? Russians deserve this after what they do to people at passport control. The flight was bumpy. The food was terrible. My seatmates were nice. The first nice, pleasant Russians I've sat next to--usually I get ornery babushkas or stinky men who haven't washed their clothing in months. There are plenty of nice Russians--they don't sit next to me on Aeroflot flights. They sit next to other people. I'm sure they thought I was rude, but my head still hurt and my only prayer of surviving was to read. I finished a book on my Kindle. C.S. Harris Sebastian St. Cyr mystery. Was ticked by the ending but will march right up and buy the next book the minute it comes out. We landed at Sheremetevo and didn't pull up to a gate. On one hand, this is nice because we all have a fair shot at getting to passport control. On the other hand, only in Moscow do you descend from an airplane in the pitch black, ice covering the runway in 18 degree weather without the wind chill figured in. People biffed it at the bottom of the stairs. We played an odd game of twisty turny follow the leader around the airport runways. I hoped we might get lucky and pull into the new terminal that allegedly has civilized passport lines. Not lucky. The passport control race began. My line was short. But guess what? Japanese tourists were in front of us. In every line. How they beat us, I have no clue. Maybe these were not our Japanese tourist and these tourists were on a different flight. We sat and sat and sat. We watched the cranky passport people growl at the Asians. We listened to the Russians talk about us--in Russian--without realizing that all three of my daughters can translate Russian. Abby is quite good at eavesdropping on Russians and explaining to us what they are saying. They were being rude and saying derrogatory things about us. So what? Their airport stinks, their passport people are bigots and their national airline serves terrible food. We make it out. We get our bags. We meet our driver. For the first time in almost 2 1/2 years, a very rude taxi driver follows us, nay, CHASES us, to the door, doing everything short of giving us the finger because I told him that we didn't need a taxi and to leave us alone. He scared Abby. The weather is nasty. Everything smells like cigarettes and pollution. Of course the traffic is nasty--it is the end of a Russian national holiday. Welcome to Moscow. On the way home to Rosinka, I called property management to ask them to turn our water on. This is a quirk of living in Rosinka. When you leave town, they turn your water off. In the winter this makes sense because you don't want your pipes to freeze. No clue why they do this in the summer. The temperatures have been low enough that property management told me to call on the way home from the airport to minimize the amount of time the water would be on. I called. No answer. I called again. No answer. I called a third time and after about 10 rings, an answer. I explained who I was. Clearly I didn't get one of their better English speakers. It took three or four times explaining who I was and what I needed for her to get that I was a resident who needed my water turned on. No water, no toilets, no dishwasher, no laundry etc. She said, "I cannot help you. You will need to call back in the morning." I lost it. I started to yell. "I did what YOU TOLD ME TO DO! You will TURN ON THE WATER! I will be home from the airport in 30 minutes. There will be WATER! Do you UNDERSTAND ME?!" First the dream about the mean Russian lady in the sauna, then the rain, then the taxi, then the flight, then passport control and now this. I think she got the message. When we pulled into the parking lot next to our garage, the plumbers were pulling out. Mission accomplished. Water on. When we were in Istanbul, Allyson observed that even the stray dogs in Istanbul seemed happier than the stray dogs in Moscow. What she concluded is that Russia is like Narnia while it was under the spell of the White Witch. People's hearts are frozen and it is always winter. Sometimes I forget that I live in the land of the White Witch. Then I go someplace like Istanbul where the fruit and vegetables are fresh, delicious and wholesome, where the people smile and are hospitable, where the city is surprisingly clean and the environment fun and fascinating. I'm then reminded about all the things that make me nuts in Moscow. I'm not going to be one of those expats who disses on the country she lives in because it isn't the country she comes from. However, there are moments when Russia invades my dreams and tests my sanity that I wonder what I did to have such bad karma. Allyson seems to be born under my bad karma star. She has trained for two months to run in a cross-country competition in Kiev, Ukraine. Monday, while Ally was out at the Gallipoli battlefields, I received an email that the Ukrainian government had closed all the schools in their country for the next three weeks to prevent the spread of H1N1. This applied to international schools too. CEESA (our sports and activities organization) had to cancel the meet. The White Witch has cast a spell, I swear. Or the mean Russian lady from the Rosinka sauna who tripped me and sent me to the hospital--in my dreams. I think Russia hates me. I think Russia hates itself. I think someone needs to come and overthrow the White Witch.

Sick alert

No one who knows me would be the slightest bit surprised to learn that I have succumbed to whatever the twins had. I fought bravely, but tonight the oral thermometer showed 37.6C and that was it: I'm officially sick. I have the worst luck ever. Whenever anyone walks past me with a little bit of something respiratory, I end up sick. I've had years where I've had pneumonia two or three times in a season. My internist once told me that she suspects there is some defect in my immune system, that one day when we have presto DNA tests, would show up as some freakish mutation. In the meantime, pass the Kleenex and the Vicks Vap-O-Rub. But wait. I'm in Russia. Scratch that. I'll end up loading up on ibuprofen, sudafed and taking the metro down to Shuka mall to plead my case at the local apetka. "Ya gavaru panglisky. Ya Amerikanka. Minye bilayet kashlya. Oo vast yest soorup kashlya?" If they don't get my bad Russian, I will cough. Very loud. I am spending the night sitting up on the couch (it helps breathing). I'll go to the European Medical Center office tomorrow to plead for some kind of hard core cough medicine (preferably something with promethezine) and forget any hope of working on William the Conqueror essays. I really do want to get my homework done. I'm watching Discovery Travel and Living because it is the closest thing to TLC we have. I caught an episode of "Little People, Big World," a show that makes me insane, and it made me weepy. They were having a Beaverton parade, I saw the locals in their orange and black (Beaverton High colors) and it made me homesick. I don't think Westview would make me homesick. It might make me more sick. Twins have ACT on Saturday. Talk about a crap shoot. They've been sick for days and will still be recovering when the take the test. We'll be sending up big prayers that they'll make it through successfully. I may have to go all Jane D. on the BYU Admissions people if it doesn't work out ;) (You know I love you Jane!) In the meantime, LA Ink is on. Trashy, but doesn't make me homesick. Supposedly "What Not To Wear" is now on Discovery Travel and Living International. I can watch Stacey and Clinton and pretend I'm not in Russia, taking swigs of random cough medicines, hoping one of them works.

Random Thoughts

I miss...driving, Thai food, sleeping without waking up at 3AM, dryers that don't shrink your clothes to Barbie size, the big soft sugar cookies with pink frosting you buy at gas stations, Maverick refills, Costco pharmacy, bread pudding from the Nordstrom cafe, walking Peter Jarman's Newfoundlands through Federal Heights, jogging by the Salt Lake City cemetary, going to Bees games with my dad, how a freshly mowed lawn smells on a summer evening, queen size beds, wearing flip flops 24/7, not having to carry my passport around, the Euro at 1.25 I don't miss...American news media, mindless consumption and consumerism, did I say American news media? Let me repeat that AMERICAN NEWS MEDIA, David Letterman, the US Congress, reality TV stars (who are the Kardashians anyway???), Kanye West, American yogurt and dairy products, meaningless social obligations, malfunctioning air conditioning, driving 1800 South in Bountiful, the radio black hole between Snowville, Utah and Boise, Idaho, American Idol and talk radio I gave myself a Le Creuset casserole for my birthday. It is sapphire blue and it will provide me the means to conquer beouf bourguignon. Happy Friday!

Detour, or Sniveling Neville

Today I'm taking a detour. I don't typically blog about politics because I find that the ensuing contention isn't pretty. I'm willing to rant to Lindsey or talk with my daughter Sara but spending half my life living in one of the most conservative states in the US (Utah) and 12 years living in one of the most liberal (Oregon) has prompted me to walk gingerly in public when it comes to politics. Two factors came to light in the preceding few days that have prompted me to abandon that rule. First, the current administration refused to meet with Tibet's Dali Lama. Second, the current administration's state department elected to discontinue funding for the Iranian Human Rights Documentation Center, an entity tasked with compiling the human rights violations committed by the the Iranian government against their own people since the contested election several months ago. This is an apolitical organization--neither left nor right--that seeks to protect the rights of those seeking basic liberties in Iran. What essentially this amounts to is the Obama administration toadying to dictators and tyrants. This is capitulation to the Chinese and the Iranians. This is appeasement. This is not a right or left issue. This is a humanity issue. I was appalled by the adminstration's move to shaft the Czech and the Poles to placate Russia just a month ago. Not entirely a surprise that Secretary Clinton believes you can make nice nice with the Kremlin, but still--there's a principle that you watch your friend's backs and we sold them out for the criminals that run Moscow. But come on. The Dalai Lama? Does anyone in the world except the Chinese believe that Tibet isn't an example of repression and human rights violations? And since when are we, the "shining light of democracy" kowtowing to Adminijad who is flagrantly flaunting his nuclear potential and justifiably worrying most governments in Europe and elsewhere? The Green revolution in Iran is about freedom and democracy. It is about self-determination. Instead of taking their side, our government is trying to placate crazy Islamic radicals who would love nothing more than to wipe Western civilization from the face of the earth. Do they think that muting the protests of people demanding rights will prevent Adminijad from sending warheads to Tel Aviv? It is often said that history repeats itself. It depresses me that my country appears to be playing the role of Britain in the 1930's. Welcome back Neville Chamberlain. Who is going to be Hitler? And where oh where is our Winston Churchill?

(image courtesty of fhashemi from the post "Friday Protests in Tehran")

Goodbye 102

(When I have my camera working, I'll update these last posts with pictures. For now, I'm going count myself as fortunate to be updating!) Today is our last day in Rosinka 102. This is the home that provided us an escape route from the armpit apartment on Tverskaya. Those early days of 800 square feet, 1 bathroom, 2 bedrooms, suitcases everywhere and huddling around the computer to watch "Everwood" are still not the happiest memories. I remember that first night in Rosinka, sleeping on mattresses on the floor with borrowed sheets and blankets feeling so relieved to be away from the cigarette smoke fumes, malfunctioning air conditioning and matchbox sized kitchen. This has been a great home for my family. In this house, I figured out how to cook using what I could buy at my Russian grocery store, we've had friends visit from the US--Wells Brimhall, the Densleys, Allison Packham--and had our dear friends the Coxes camp out at various junctures. This has been a happy place for us and I was prepared to spend our 3-4 years in Russia here. However, the changing real estate market and the shrinking expat population opened up an opportunity for us to move to a larger home at a significantly lower price. We will spend our next two years in Russia in Rosinka 1105. Would it have been easier to move near the school and avoid the nightmare of traffic on Volokolmoskoe Schosse? Yes. But there were about 500 complications that are too annoying and too Russian to explain. Suffice it to say, we feel like this is the right place for our family to spend the next two years. Today is not going to be easy. It is about 40 degrees outside, windy and rainy. I have a houseful of boxes that need to be moved to 1105 before the movers come tomorrow to move the furniture. A lot of our friends are traveling for the Anglo-American School holiday so we are going to be putting in a lot of sweat equity today with a little help, but not as much as we would on another weekend. I'm looking forward to coming out on the other side. We'll get through it. We always do. We have done much harder, more complicated moves than this. I am a little sentimental about leaving our first "home" in Moscow, but I'm eager to take on a new stage of life too. See you in another life, Brother.

First post of the new school year in which Heather sings the praises of clean bathrooms...

I've been back in Moscow for about a month. This means there are no more excuses for updating. I had a week of computer problems (which I blame on stupid Windows software) that appear to be resolved for the moment. I did blow up a phone, a transformer and a surge protector in the process of trying to fix one computer. I am sick--bronchitis--and I'm moving in a week to a bigger unit. The twins are in Cyprus working on biology labs and eating Greek food. Hubby is preparing for a big training meeting in Nizhny 24 hours after we move. Youngest Jarman is an assistant director in the middle school play. Go team Jarman! I have reached a place where I don't spend my time in Moscow wishing I was in America or spend my time in America wishing I was in Moscow. I have made peace with my life. Progress. I do miss saying the Pledge of Alleigance. When I said the Pledge at Girl Scout camp, I became teary. I love my country and I worry about its future. I do miss clean bathrooms. I'm sure it is a woman thing to care about clean public restrooms. I was in the new, upscale Metropolis mall yesterday and the sleek, modern bathrooms with their stainless steel fixtures and stark black wall tiles smelled like an open sewer. There are 45,000 ruble designer coats hanging around the corner and the bathroom isn't as clean as the rest stop between Mountain Home, Idaho and Boise. How does that work? In America, I can go into the Smith's Food in the Avenues and it smells like a flower garden. The prize for the worst bathroom in Moscow, IMHO, is still Novodivechy Convent. They should post a warning in the guide books for all women visitors. In fact, I think most guide books should include bathroom ratings i.e. "The food at the Blue Marlin is spectacular, but you'll have better luck at a sewage flooded bathroom at an Egyptian border crossing than here in the Cinque Terre." The bathroom conundrum hit me Monday morning. I had a bad pot of yogurt for breakfast. I didn't know you could have bad yogurt, but within 10 minutes of eating this yogurt, my insides seized and I knew I was going to have to vomit. I figured as soon as I did, I'd be fine. I had to be fine. I had a 10AM appointment at the US Embassy for a notary and to add extra pages into the hubby's passport. So round one of food poisoning went as expected. I still felt queasy, but I climbed in the car anyway. Imagine morning traffic anywhere in the US. Now multiply it by a factor of 7 and you might have a typical morning commute in Moscow. Except the diesel exhaust and factory fumes are unreal. As the car schlepped down Pyatinskoe Schosse toward the MKAD, it became clear to me that there would be a round 2 for the food poisoning problem. I laid in the back seat, clutching my stomach, wondering how horrified the morning commuters would be if I simply opened the car door and puked all over the road. Knowing the number of alcoholics in Moscow, I'm sure public vomiting is commonplace. Still, I think I might scare the locals if I opened the door to vomit in rush hour traffic. Hubby assured me that it should only take 20 minutes to get to work but OF COURSE HE WAS WRONG. Every minute that passed, my stomach cramps got worse. My body ached, my head hurt. And the stupid car just went along as slow as molasses in February. The traffic fumes made it worse. I don't know how I made it to my husband's office, but I did. Round 2 of the food poisoning saga proceeded as expected, except longer and more comprehensively, and after emptying everything possible out of my system, I dragged myself back down to the car and went to the metro. It was the first time in six months that I found a seat in a metro car during morning rush hour (score 1 point). When I went into McDonald's to order my Coca-Cola (expat folklore has it that if you have stomach bug, the best thing to do is drink a Coca-Cola because it purges your innards ), I remembered all my Russian words (score 1 point) and when I went to the Embassy, it was quiet (score 1 point). I sat for a good long hour, reading, and by noon the worst of the food poisoning saga was over. I was weak, achy and empty, but at least I wasn't curled up on the bathroom floor in the fetal position. This is why knowing where your closest clean bathroom is makes a difference. I could probably make a tidy sum from creating a webpage for women travelers rating and ranking bathrooms across the world. In this respect, bronchitis is a 100 times better than food poisoning.

Deep Thoughts on a Monday Morning

The sun is out. I don't know how long it will last but the glimpse of blue I see through my window buoys me up in a way all the chocolate in the world can't. June is a bittersweet month for me--so many endings. As much as I may try, my year isn't January to January, it is June to June. Consequently, when school closes, people pack up and move, youth I taught don graduation gowns, suitcases organized and winter clothes folded and placed in the top of the closet, my year ends. I said good-bye to my friend Nancy yesterday. She's been posted to Rwanda. I plan on visiting her in Africa. I can't imagine not seeing her again. Two of my grandparents passed away in June. My Granddaddy Clayton died after many months coping with bone cancer. My Grandma Jay died due to complications in hip replacement surgery. One of my favorite sisters-in-law, who had terminal ovarian cancer, passed away the last week of school two years ago. When I think of summer green grass and children playing in the yard, sometimes I see them in their floral dresses and bare feet playing tag while the exhausted adults recover after funeral services are over. My brother died June 11 2002. I can't remember if I attended RS last Sunday, but I can remember the way the morning light came through the window when I picked up the phone to hear the news. Yesterday I heard that another big sister lost a younger brother. I wish I could say something wise that would make sense of her loss because I've heard every cliche, felt every emotion. I'm confident her brother is fine--it is the aftermath the living experience when a young person dies unexpectedly that no one can prepare you for. Before I was a wife and mother, I was a daughter and sister. Losing a connection to your past, to your most fundamental identity, forces you to see the world through different lenses. There is no way out but through. Sometimes there are no answers. Sometimes there is comfort, reassurance and relief; sometimes it is anger, resentment and loneliness. You reach a place where the hole in your heart heals and you move through the day without 20 things reminding you of him. You pass the anniversary of his death without dwelling too deeply on the event. And then you have a day like today when you learn that another big sister has lost her younger brother. I wish I could give her a hug and tell her I get it. Because I do.

Scrapbooking

This picture was taken after our Relief Society culture group took a backstage tour of the Boshoi Ballet theater workshops. There are some pretty awesome women in this group--women I never want to forget. A few of these ladies are leaving soon--some in the fall to return to the states to have babies. Have I mentioned I hate saying good-bye?

I missed something in the girl genes that makes me interested in scrapbooking. I made one truly extraordinary scrapbook for my husband for our first Christmas together. I made a wedding scrapbook, baby books for my girls and then we had a housefire. My scrapbooks were smoke damaged or destroyed. I took this as a sign that scrapbooking and I were not meant to be which is ironic when you figure my mother was a graphic designer for a scrapbooking materials company! I have files of pictures in storage in Oregon, but none of them are surrounded by stickers, cutouts or floral printed paper. I am in awe of people like my friend Sarah who can turn scraps of paper into magic.

Now I keep most of my pictures in digital files. My sister-in-law Christina swears by digital scrapbooking. If I can get her to teach me something, I might give that a go.

I was thinking about how to remember some of my friends who are leaving, especially since I realize the odds of us ever being all together in one place again are slim. What I realized, as I was whipping up one of my dinners last week, is that these ladies are part of my life because of the recipes that they've shared with me. Their food is part of my family's repetoire and every time I cook their recipes, I think of them. Not quite a scrapbook, but it has given me idea to put thse recipes together and publish them for my family as a way to remember my friends.

Though she isn't leaving Moscow for good anytime soon, my friend Lindsey's Winter Vegetable Soup recipe has become synonymous with combating Mother Russia's meanest Siberian cold fronts. I first had this recipe after I came home from a week in England. I was starving for something that wasn't fast food (after days of on the run, airport food) and her delicious soup satiated my hunger perfectly. I still remember how it tasted the first time I had it.

My friend Carolyn is an extraordinary baker. Alas, she's off to Nigeria. I will remember her by her Lemon Scones. They brighten my mood when I'm knee deep in the grumps--which I've been quite a bit lately. I haven't mastered her delicate touch with the dough, but I will.

I can appreciate gourmet with the best of them, but what I crave is well-made comfort food--somewhere between Paula Deen and American diner food. My friend Kristy's Macaroni and Cheese is legendary. I have been on a quest for a good mac & cheese recipe for years. I have found one and I am in awe. Kristy is off to the Bay Area.

My friend Christine left Moscow for good about a month ago. She is presently in Houston, recovering after the delivery of her second daughter, but may end up in the Palo Alto area. Her Chicken and Artichokes have quickly become one of our favorite Sunday dinners. Her Molten Chocolate Cakes are enough to put us all in carb comas, the kind of carb coma you want every day.

I could go on and on, talking about food memories. The first time I had lasagna at my friend Josie's house after we moved into Rosinka. I didn't know lasagna could taste that good. My friend Andria makes to-die for sweet rolls. Alexandra makes a great Italian pizza dip that is the first thing to go at almost every party she brings it too.

I may not be able to take these ladies with me, but I will bring part of their originality, their flare, their resourcefulness at taking care of their families in this often difficult, strange country we have all called home for a period of time.

Where the rope ends

This is the time of year that I have a schizophrenic relationship with Russia. The sun, green grass, smell of lilacs and babushkas with their bouquets of lilies of the valley soften the crankiest heart. On the other hand...the "midnight sun" (the sun doesn't start setting until after 10 and starts rising around 4AM) makes it impossible for me to get a truly good night's sleep unless I manage to keep my cheap Aeroflot eye mask on until dawn. I have heard that this kind of light exposure can lead to mania. This, I believe. There are nights I take benadryl to force my body to sleep. The girls are inevitably climbing the wall with homework and preparation for finals. Now that Sara is taking university classes, there aren't three of them stressing, there are four of them stressing. The beautiful sunlight means I see all the dust that the dull gray winter light has hidden. And then there is the restlessness. I don't' have the same excuses that the twins do (they haven't been back in the states since last August), but I start to miss home. But I don't have a home. I live out of a suitcase and try not to get in the way of friends and family. I get back to the US and I feel like an alien. I suppose what I miss is everything being easy. I like being able to drive myself, to be able to afford dry cleaning and be able to find the items on my grocery list the first time I try. I miss Chinese food and I miss the mountains. I miss Costco rotisserie chickens and comfortable beds. Europeans have an incredible tolerance for hard mattresses. I had an interesting experience a few weeks back where I heard through the grapevine that some US study abroad students were dissing we expats because our lives are too easy. We live in these cushy compounds and have drivers. We clearly live in the lap of luxury and fail to appreciate the authentic Russian experience. Sounds like a bunch of proletariat rebel rousers looking for a chance to burn out the bourgeoisie. For whatever reason, these off hand self-righteous comments made me angrier than usual. They treat Moscow like it exists for their entertainment and amusement. They walk past the poverty and selectively choose to ignore the stories about murders of human rights activists and pretend that the massive lines outside the US Embassy are for people wanting visas to go to Disney World. On any given week, the modicum of comfort I have in my Rosinka home doesn't approach what these kids have in their university lives in America. I could tell them stories about my courageous friends who have braved the winters here with little kids while living in tiny apartments, of women who now how to manage traffic with the best of the Russian maniac drivers, of men who work 60 hours a week and spend 25 hours sitting in traffic during the commute. I could tell them stories about robberies, miltsia and bad weather. But I won't because I don't really understand Russia since I don't live in a nasty flat with a babushka and her 10 cats. I'm just a spoiled expat. The irony of leaving in Moscow is that just when it starts to get good in May and June, you leave for summer break. And saying good-bye. There are too many good-byes this year. I am terrible at saying goodbye. Most people don't know that I am deeply emotional person that sits and stews for months about things. When I found out that my friend Kristy was leaving, part of my heart broke. The first person who was nice to me when I moved to Moscow, one of the librarians at school, is leaving this year. Next year the twins leave. Sara may go on a mission. I may start to truly feel old for the first time in my life. I'm at a point where I think I'm at the end of my rope and then I'm not. My ability to process and cope with the stress isn't necessarily great right now. I am more testy than usual and my patience with idiots is non-existent. I am sick of reading Cyrillic characters and tired of having to sit in my room with my laptop if I want to watch TV (since the downstairs area is filled with children doing homework). I am tired of cooking meals and eating nasty restaurant food. I can't remember the last time I had a truly outstanding hamburger. I am tired of cooking for all the end of the year events--finals, barbecues, parties. Blah. Blah. And then my hand slips another inch and I realize I still haven't hit the end of my rope.

Under the Lilacs

Since I moved to Moscow, the best thing I've done to acquaint myself with the city was join an Architecture Group sponsored by the International Women's Club of Moscow. This venerable institution has been around since the early years of the Cold War. Now the ranks of the IWC boast many Russian women who stand side by side with their sisters from every land. My Architecture group has members as diverse as wives of the diplomatic corps of Finland, Singapore and Denmark as well as women from Australia, Sweden, England, Belgium, Netherlands, France, Estonia, Sri Lanka and Korea. Our obligation is to organize and present one walk around a designated section of the city every quarter. This quarter, I lead a group of six women--I was the only one for whom English was my native tongue: we had French, Finnish, Chinese, and two Russian speakers. The inadvertent consequence of this was I ran the show. I was the only one with enough grasp of all the various planning components and the ability to facilitate communication between all the ladies that I've been frantically planning this tour for weeks. We had a cranky museum officials to work with at the UNESCO protected Ostankino estate, a picnic for twenty, monorail tickets, metro maps and PDFS, a 500 year old Russian Orthodox church, a birthday party for one of our most beloved members--all with a forecast for rain looming like a grey spectre over the whole event. The good news is that it didn't rain until after our tour, the most militant (read: procedure nazis) ladies had other plans today so we were able to get away with a rather lax walk. The ladies who wanted to see the world famous Ostankino serf theater saw it, the ladies who wanted a head start getting good and pickled for my friend Phoebe's birthday had a chance to quaff two bottles of cheap Russian champagne and I was able to cross something off my list that has kep me awake nights for the past 10 days. The sun came out for our picnic--there were thousands of tulips in primary red and yellow, we were able to see the beginnings of a Russian Orthodox service, complete with the a'capella singing I love so much--all in all I felt good about things. After the picnic had been packed up, I headed out around Ostankino Pond, enjoying the sun and the stroll around lilac bushes. I had my iPod 80's playlist energizing my stride. As I strode to the monorail entrance, I felt the heel of my Dansko clog catch in a grate. I have a hazy recollection of time slowing, suspending as I threw my arms out in front of me, sending my iPod skittering across the concrete, my feet coming out of my clogs. For a second I felt like I was flying. My chin and left palm took the brunt of the impact, my glasses slamming into the cement--for a second I worried that they had broken and I would have shards in my eyes. With the wind knocked out of me, the shock of my fall paralyzed me for a moment. A man whose face I never saw grabbed my elbow and helped me up. I saw a metro guard, her brow creased with worry, racing toward me. The man found my iPod, handed it to me. All the Russian words I knew vanished from my tongue. I couldn't find any words. I picked up my glasses, retrieved my shoes, grabbed my Ikea babushka cart and found the monorail station entrance. My face was numb, my palms scraped and dirty. I knew I wasn't bleeding too badly. The metro guard looked at me again, touching my sleeve; I nodded that I was okay. In this country where people walk by dead bodies in ditches, two good Samaritans paused from their frantic pace to help a stranger. The entire journey from Teletsenter monorail to VDNKh to Kitai-Gorod and out to Tushiskaya, I noted the curious glances of my fellow passengers. I kept telling myself that it didn't hurt. I watched "Glee" on my iPod. I listened to ABBA. I walked through the perehods purposely, focused on following the signs and getting to school as soon as possible. I'm sure people assumed I'd been hit by my boyfriend or been smacked in a bar brawl. Sometimes I see drunks on the metro with facial lacerations and I wonder how they can stand being seen in public because it is patently obvious to everyone around them that they've been drinking and they were too stupid to keep from being hit. I noted the averted eyes and the glancing curious expressions from my fellow passengers. I wondered what they thought. I felt grit in my mouth and knew I'd probably cracked some enamel off a tooth or two. By the time I made it to the rynoks outside Tushinskaya, my head was starting to throb and my left hand began to hurt--I suspect I may have sprained a muscle in my hand. I knew I had a 20 minute walk ahead of me. I pushed forward, listening to "SOS" and "Waterloo." The walk from Tushinskaya to school is straight, veering uphill in the last block as the road curves and follows the boundary of the Moscow canal. I started to feel the weight of my backpack and the cart loaded with picnic acroutements. Trudging across the bridge, I pushed down the pain, ignored the pre-rainstorm winds gusting around me and focused on my destination. I crossed the threshold of the Anglo-American School, gratefully holding up my parent ID badge. Paid tuition put me behind secure gates and surrounded me with people who didn't typically hate me just because of my nationality. I plowed ahead, ignoring the quizzical expressions on the guard's faces. I didn't bother to go to the restroom to see the damage. I was starving and needed water to wash down some tylenol. Some fateful quirk meant the cafeteria was serving my favorite--lasagna bolognese--and they had one of my favorite chocolate banana pie desserts left. I took up my spot at an isolated table in the corner, eating like I hadn't seen food in days, popped three Aleve and polished off my meal. I stopped in the bathroom--noted the dirt on my face and lips. The skin had been scraped off my whole chin--it glowed like Rudolph's red nose. The swelling was getting out of hand so I marched down to the health office, hoping the staff had mercy for a parent. The nurse took one look at me, clucked and invited me to sit down so he could clean it up. Some hydrogen peroxide, triple-antibiotic ointment, a bandage and an ice pack later, I nearly started crying. I craved his kindness. I knew I needed to hold it together until I got home, an event that wouldn't happen for five more hours. The librarians invited me to lay down on their couch. I stowed my backpack, worked on my thesis and opening paragraph for a paper I need to finish in the next week. Time poked on. Eventually Abby and Rachel showed up. We went to Allyson's play (she was brilliant, of course). I resented the "Gossip Girl" pack of snot-nosed rich girls sitting the back row. I'm sure I wasn't nearly generous enough with my praise for the kids in the cast but I was holding it together. Sara called and informed me that we needed to pick up one of her fellow study abroad students at Tushinskaya metro on the way home. The rain had started. I felt my grip on sanity slipping. I saw ladies from church and wanted none of them--I hate feigned sympathy and I wasn't about to go fishing for compassion. Either they care or they don't. I wasn't in the mood to put on a show of polite niceties. The study abroad student was lost. Sara hadn't bothered to give her proper directions. Mobile phones weren't working. I was losing it. I felt the tears starting, the exhaustion of the day catching up with me. I managed to put on my polite mommy face for another 20 minutes until we rolled into Rosinka. I walked into the house, reminded of my shortcomings by the dishes in the sink and the clutter all around. I hate being embarassed in front of house guests, even if they are BYU study abroad students. I found my computer, put on my pajamas and am now sitting in my bed. Abby is asleep next to me. Allyson and Rachel are watching "Angel" on DVD. I'm sure Parry, Sara and her guest are analyzing Russian history and politics to death. But I am home. Today I saw lilacs (my favorite). They reminded me of my grandmother who passed away several months before I was married. I wondered what she would think of me now, trying to carve out a life in what can be a brutal city that runs people over. I experienced kindness. I perservered in the face of discomfort and stress. I figured out what to write about Che Guevara and modern Latin America. I ate lasagna bolognese. I watched "Glee" which is painfully funny for those of us who survived high school show choir. I am here. Now I am going to bed. At least with the rain clouds the sky has the decency to be dark enough that I may go to sleep feeling normal and not that it is 5 in the afternoon. I am going to post this without spellcheck. Too bad for posterity. Good night, Moscow. Stay out of my dreams.

Since I Last Saw You....

So the last time I wrote was before my trip to Utah. There are a lot of reasons I haven't written since then. One, I have made not one, but two trips back to the US. The preparation, trip and recovery always takes awhile. There was also a trip to England thrown in there too. The twins went to Croatia. Two, there has been a lot of sickness and allergies at our home. I have been plagued by allergies. This late cold/heat/cold weather kills me. I have major problems with mold and sinus headaches from humidity and fluctuating air pressure. Abby has been flat half the winter. I think we'll have to take her to specialist. I'd take her to her integrative medicine specialist in Portland, but he'll say "Toxins" and I'll say "Moscow." Three, I have had house guests for a month. Not the same guests. The last batch went home Wednesday. It was lovely to have visitors. However I didn't get much done. Four, it has been difficult, if not impossible, to get a computer on a regular basis. The girls have never had more homework . All of them. From 4PM to midnight almost every day every computer in the house is occupied for at least part of that time. They have terrific grades. They are in the Naitonal Honor Society. And they are losing their minds from the stress. I have never seen anything like it. Now that the guests are gone and Rachel is in Warsaw playing softball (we are down one child) I don't have much excuse not to write on this blog and say "Hey." Sara is here. She starts school on Monday. She has been productive and busy, hiking around Moscow with me in lousy weather. We made our plane reservations to go home for the summer (yay!). The rounds of dentist, doctor, and hair appointments begins. We will trek to Portland for Girl Scout camp. The twins will go to Newport Beach with their grandparents. I will go to California to visit dear friends. We have a family reunion. And we will head back to Moscow in late August--assuming that the work permit people in the government find Intel's application and Parry gets his work permit. Yes, the annual song and dance for the work permit begins. I hate leaving without our multi-entry visas but whatever. If we waited for the Russian government to get their act together, we wouldn't get to take home leave. I'll be checking in before a few months. I just wanted everyone to know we're alive :)

25 random things (my list from Facebook)

At first I thought this meme was obnoxious. Now I'm glad I wrote it because I can paste it here in my blog to save for posterity. I can also add to the list. For those three of my readers who didn't see it when I posted it on Facebook, be amused, be annoyed, wonder who starts these things--but read on.

1. I am terrified of heights. This dates back to my study abroad in Jerusalem when I was hiking along an old Roman aqueduct, looked down at the canyon below, became dizzy and nauseous and froze. A very nice tall guy in my group walked into the water in the aqueduct and let me hold onto him while I walked until I arrived on solid ground. Driving over tall bridges makes me nauseous. It took me several years of living in Portland, Oregon before I could drive over a bridge without breaking into a sweat. When I climbed the Brunnelleschi dome in Florence, I struggled to let Parry take our picture because I wanted to throw up when I looked over the edge.

2. My two biggest weaknesses are my temper (combined with my mouth) and procrastination. I have also been known to hold a grudge. I'm working on all of these. I don't think I've really yelled at anyone for a long time, but I have procrastinated a lot over the last month and I have a few grudges that need rooting out.

3. I watched the second plane hit the World Trade Center on September 11 live on Good Morning America. I had woken up early (west coast US) to take a phone call from my New York City based editor. It was the first time I remember having a personal interest in a national tragedy. I still have videotapes of that day that I can't bear to throw away. As I side note, I was in NY and DC a month, to the day, before 9/11 visiting the same editor. One of my favorite memories from the DC trip was sitting on the steps of the US Capitol eating a burger from Johnny Rockets. It felt like America's living room. Now there are security fences, barricades and barriers around the Capitol. This makes me sad, but at the same time I have to confess that I might have to slap Nancy Pelosi if I ran into her. Perhaps the barricade is a good thing.

4. I love Van Gogh's paintings. There is something intimate and personal about the pain and passion he expresses in his use of color and his brush strokes that I can't help connect on a visceral level. One of the most unique, stark, pained VanGogh paintings I've ever seen is in the Pushkin Fine Arts Museum here in Moscow. It is called " Prisoners Exercising (After Dore). My favorite painting is "Cafe Terrace At Night."

5. I have stress nightmares about transportation. I dream about being in flooded airports, being trapped on trains, racing across town to catch a flight, and organizing my driver's schedule. I had a premonition in a dream the night before Bologna, Italy that there would be a problem with our flight and lo and behold, we reached the airport and found it had been canceled. We were rerouted to Rome (instead of Milan) and arrived four hours later than we were supposed to. After the recent temple trip to Helsinki, I had dreams of Russian women crowding around me and yelling at me to cook faster or telling me that I was cooking all wrong. When Sara's flight was rerouted to Canada because of the crazy drunk, it probably set my nocturnal mental health back about a decade.

6. When I am in Russia, I often want nothing to do with Russian culture--literature, borscht, music etc.. There is something so immediate and intense about living in this country that to immerse myself fully in it makes me feel like I'm drowning. At the same time, I love it here. I make a mean borscht, for the record.

7. If I could go anywhere in the world it would be Africa. I have always wanted to go to Tanzania and Kenya. I dream of safaris and savannahs.

8. The Lord of the Rings Trilogy are the most influential books in my life and are also my favorite films. After I saw "The Return of the King," I told my friend Bethany that I was afraid that I had just seen the best film in my lifetime and it would be downhill from there. So far, I've been right. My favorite writer, however, is Jane Austen. I adore her and read her books over and over again. I have never been able to finish "Mansfield Park" because I think Fanny Price is a ninny. I will keep trying.

9. Living in Moscow has killed any dreams I had of spending my twilight years in a big city. I'm campaigning for a small farm in a rural area where I can raise goats, make gourmet cheeses and figure out how to raise a garden of heirloom tomatoes with killing them with my black thumb.

10. I have an idolatrous relationship with food, especially Italian food. I had a five cheese risotto in Bologna that is *this close* to Shangri La. My love for dairy is obscene. Whenever family members go on quack health food diets that eliminate dairy, I listen politely and dream of Gruyere cheese. I would walk barefoot on hot tar for exquisite chocolate desserts.

11. I saw a naturopath, had acupuncture and did a nearly year long cleanse before Oprah made it trendy. At the time it was a good decision but I wept during a movie that featured a couple eating spaghetti believing that I might never have spaghetti Bolognese again. I have since re-embraced the world of dairy, chocolate, gluten, tomatoes, onions and citrus and I'm okay with that.

12. Speaking of Oprah... I hate Oprah Winfrey. I think she makes women feel bad who can't afford her favorite things.

13. I've never had a massage. I had my first pedicure three months before my 40th birthday and I despair over ever figuring out how to pluck my eyebrows so they look chic.

14. I will celebrate my 50th birthday by purchasing an expensive, classic purse--like Louis Vuitton--that I will have until I die. I will find my perfect pair of trousers, the perfect crisp, white starched blouse and procure a lovely Hermes scarf. This will be my uniform with a few important variations until I'm too old and senile to care.

15. I never thought I would be a good mother. Now I believe it is the thing I'm best at. I think I have the most extraordinary children in the world. They are brilliant, clever and far cooler than I could ever dream of being.

16. Pet Peeve: white kids who dress and talk like gangsters and hip-hop/rap videos. Especially if they're suburban white kids. Pet Peeve 2: People who mercilessly abuse the English language and fail to understand the meaning and power of their words. Pet Peeve 3: Being late.

17. I met my husband for the first time the summer before our Junior year in high school. We were introduced in the Republican cloakroom of the US Senate. I was a page; he was a returning page. I thought he was a smarmy punk in plaid Bermuda shorts. He thought I was a snob. Together we are yin and yang and it is AWESOME. I married the best guy in the world. Sorry everyone else--you'll have to settle for second best.

18. I have three honorary daughters: Bridget, Chelsea and Louisa. Chelsea once told me that I was her Mrs. Weasley and my home was her Burrow. I cried I was so touched. I still get choked up thinking about it. I love them all and am very proud of what exceptional young women they are becoming. They are also wicked cool and exceptionally funny.

19. I started university on a fine arts scholarship with the notion I would major in film studies. I changed majors at least five times before giving up, going to work and supporting my husband through his first years of university. I still haven't graduated, but I'm working on it.

20. I was born to parents who are members of The Church of Jesus-Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Mom's family converted when she was little; Dad had pioneer ancestors. I found my testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel when I went to Jerusalem at age 19. Living those principles makes me happy.

21. When I die, I hope Heaven looks like England--Kent, Cornwall or the Cotswolds. Don't care which. I suspect when I finally visit Scotland, I will feel like Heaven should look like Scotland. The Swiss Alps are a very close second.

22. I hate sunbathing. I get sunsick. I wear hats. I am beached whale pale. I, however, love the sun.

23. I have a weakness for sleazy celebrity gossip. It was a banner year with Lindsey Lohan and Britney Spears had their meltdowns. I listened to all of the OJ Simpson murder trial on the radio while I stripped wallpaper. Watching rich, famous and undeserving celebrities crack up brings me warped satisfaction. When Paris Hilton final crashes and burns, I'll be waving my pom-poms.

24. I love TV procedural dramas when I need to turn my brain off: Law & Order, Without a Trace, ER marathons on TNT. I also love the Food Network, especially "Ace of Cakes" and the Food Network Challenges. My current favorite shows are "LOST" and "Chuck." In my fantasies, if I could be on any reality TV show, it would be "Project Runway." Fierce!

25. Cooking is easy. Sleeping--for 7-8 hours, without disruptions--is hard.

Sing Your Way Home

There's a great song by the Talking Heads called "This must be the place (naive melody)" that was also an amazing, poignant cover by Shawn Colvin. I've been thinking about this song a lot because I'm feeling sentimental about home and family. Home is where I want to be Pick me up and turn me round I feel numb - burn with a weak heart (So I) guess I must be having fun The less we say about it the better Make it up as we go along Feet on the ground Head in the sky It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing Hi yo I got plenty of time Hi yo you got light in your eyes And you're standing here beside me I love the passing of time Never for money Always for love Cover up + say goodnight . . . say goodnight Home - is where I want to be But I guess I'm already there I come home - -she lifted up her wings Guess that this must be the place I can't tell one from another Did I find you, or you find me? There was a time Before we were born If someone asks, this where I'll be . . . where I'll be I am going to America today (TODAY!) [Thanks Neil Diamond]. I feel like I am cheating--that there is an unwritten rule that I'm not allowed to go to the US between August and June. Still, the doctor's office calls and I have three appointments with specialists (there is no endocrinologist to speak of in Moscow). When I checked in online for Delta, I had to mark my country of residence. I hesitated for a second but realized that yes, we pay Russian taxes so I live in Russia. But is this home? (Queue another song from the Broadway musical "Beauty and the Beast": Is this home? Is this where I should learn to be happy?). I came to the profound, but unsurprising conclusion that home is my family. When Allyson and Rachel are in Thailand, part of my home will be in Thailand. When Parry is traveling to Nizhny-Novgorod next week, part of me will be hanging out on a Russian train. I'm going home to America to be with my daughter, my sister, my parents, my in-laws so it doesn't matter whether they live in the SL east bench or Provo. Not having a home to claim is vaguely disconcerting. I don't consider this overpriced "cottage" in Rosinka, home, but I don't have a house in the US to call my own either. There are moments when I look around Moscow and I can't imagine the day I'll being leaving for good, but when I land in Atlanta or New York, I don't know quite where I fit either. I want to smack my fellow Americans and warn them that they are trading their inheritance for a mess of pottage when it comes to how to recover from this economic downturn. Unlimited fast food and NFL All Access cable isn't worth it. And yet I love them in all their idealistic, patriotic glory. When I was at school yesterday, I talked to a lovely woman I know from my Russian class. She's from Ecuador. She told me to enjoy my vacation to which I responded, "You that moment when you get off the plane and you look around and you understand everything?" She nodded and replied, "It's the best isn't it?" I nodded. Maybe home is where your family is because they are the ones that understand you best in the world. You know you're an expat when....you clean out your purse and find trash in five languages and lip balms from four countries.

Plans, Plans, Plans

I realize I need to talk about the Swiss part of our Christmas vacation. For whatever reason I'm drawing a blank. Switzerland is clean, gorgeous and has incredible dairy products. Also--my very cool baby brother and his family live there and we love spending time with them! Parry told me once that talking to Christina felt like "talking to a mirror." For Parry, this is a tremendous compliment. We love their kids (only our girls can out-talk Ruby-do) and Abby loves mothering Henry. In fact, we had such a wonderful time that we are having the 1st Christmas Vacation Reunion Tour--London edition in April. Also cool baby sister Julie will be along for the ride, beautiful baby Hannah in tow, and we hope the parental units, Jeff and Marge. We anticipate that there will be many other Christmas Vacation Reunion Tours before our time in Moscow is up. I'm campaigning for Spain/Morocco next April break and we're already talking about Israel for Christmas. Which brings me to the way a Moscow expat stays sane in the winter time: planning. Even for a compulsive list-maker planner like me planning takes on a new dimension during the Russian winter. When weather.com pronounces the forecast as "dreary," when you haven't seen the sun directly overhead for a month and everywhere you look seems to be coated with a layer of sludge and scum, you need to know that at some point, you're going to get out. For me this is especially important because of the rash of headaches I've had. I've been prone to migraines lately with no real logical trigger. When you're in a country that hates you, the weather is lousy, inflation rampant, the financial crisis bottomless and everyone around you, including your kids, are tight-lipped with stress, a migraine is the proverbial pond scum of your days. In fact, I'm writing this, squinting at my laptop because my head feels like an axe is embedded in my scalp and it is two hours too early for bed. I am COUNTING the days until I go to the US. You know things are ridiculous when an endoscopy and a bunch of blood tests are something to look forward to. I want OUT. My daily life has to be very planned. Unlike some expats, my driver is more like a personal taxi service than a personal driver. He is paid a flat fee per month to drive us; we give him a weekly schedule of when he is needed. The rest of the time is his--it is rare to never that I can simply call him in the middle of the day and say "Hey, McDonalds, пожалуйста." This means that I have to know when and where I'm going every day, a week in advance. This is anal retentive even for a control freak like me. A routine makes it easier : Mondays--shopping and/or lunch with Elke; Tuesdays--Anglo-American School Russian class; Fridays--International Women's Club Architecture Group. Sometimes my Indian cooking class breaks up the routine. Sometimes I take the bus and metro to the center for business lunch. And sometimes, I feel like I am a rat in a maze and one more week of planning is going to make me crazy. This is why I like vacations: I can come and go as I please without having to put it on a spreadsheet. I want a spinach salad from the pre-prepared food aisle at Waitrose--grab the Oyster card and head to the nearest Tube station. I want to walk aimlessly or go to a bookstore or window shop--all can be done at my leisure. I love to plan vacations. I spend hours online and reading travel books. I have become an expert on airports, airlines, hotels, public transportation and shopping. I can pack an under 20kg bag in 15 minutes and be out the door at a moment's notice. I don't do that often because I'm usually supervising the packing and document procurement for three children, but I can. Planning to get out is the best escape from living the plan. It's one of those twisted Catch-22 things about being Russia. Someday when I have my own car and the ability to go to Costco and indulge in rampant consumerism at will, I may recall with fondness the odd sort of simplicity that my planned life here has forced upon me. For now, I look forward to the next escape plan.

Thoughts on the new presidency from the girl with a migraine

I don't have a lot of recollections about being punished as a kid. The one memory I do have is of my father answering a tearful apology with, "Talk is cheap, Heather." He essentially said that saying your sorry and making amends--doing the right thing--are two different things. As someone who has at various junctures in her her past dealt in the world of words, I can definitely testify that any competent wordsmith can craft a deft turn of phrase that means absolutely nothing if it isn't backed up with action. I didn't watch the inauguration. I took a test, came down with a migraine headache, tried to read a chapter for my history class and gave up before the festivities were over. What I did read about were the polls portraying buoyant optimism on the part of the American people that President Obama can fix our problems. I saw journalists and commentators tripping over themselves to see who could come up with the most articulate superlative to describe the wonder that is our new president. I was reminded of reality when I read an article about the assassination of a human rights lawyer and his Novaya Gazeta journalist colleague near the Kroptinskaya metro here in Moscow in the last few days. Ah that the world were so simple that saying the right things could fix it. My take on things is decidedly more pragmatic. In an email to a British friend, I wrote, "...if I were less of a cynic, I would allow myself to be swept up in the optimistic tide of the American public and believe that everything will be sunshine, ponies, puppies, rainbows and unicorns now that we have a new president. Alas, I am a cynic and I have spent too many years watching politicians to believe that any politician can ever be a messiah. One can only hope they leave office without breaking all the toys." President Obama is a bright, charismatic, articulate, ambitious individual who has thus far made some shrewd decisions in who he has selected to work with (I think he could have done better than Hillary Clinton at State, but at least she can be a pitbull. Conflict of interest issues over her husband's foundation and library taking money from people like the Saudis makes me nervous. ) If he does try to reach beyond partisanship, avoid the temptation to spend the next four years prosecuting former Bushies to please the extreme Left, and do more than simply increase the size of government and throw money at the problem, he may have a shot at a second term. Absolving American citizens of personal responsibility for their bad spending habits and self-indulgence does not equate to solving problems. We don't need Santa Claus; we need a leader willing to make hard decisions, even if they are unpopular--even if it means people have to suffer the consequences of their choices. President Obama's election is historical but so far, he is symbolic, not substantive. Talk is cheap. Symbols are cheap. In many respects, what his team has excelled at so far is marketing him and selling him to the public. There isn't a lot in his record to justify the accolades that have been heaped on him nor to substantiate the expectations that he can fix all that ails the US. Reality is far more complex than rhetoric. So he said the right things. I can say the right things. Anyone with a good speechwriter can say the right things and say them eloquently. Until his actions show me that he is a man who is willing to deal honestly with the challenges facing our world in a substantive way, I will wait and hope, placing my faith in a merciful God.

My Christmas Vacation...Gay Pareee

I have never been a Francophile. It isn't that I don't appreciate France--particularly French art--but I've never understood what could possibly be so amazing about Paris that people drop everything in their lives to move there, wear berets, live in rat infested garrets and smoke in cafes while discussing Proust. This is, of course, an exaggeration, but I honestly couldn't imagine a city that was more amazing than, the Swiss Alps or the Norwegian fjords or more enchanting than the Cotswolds in England. I am more a Lord of the Rings girl than a Hunchback of Notre Dame girl. That being said, Paris is cool. It has a certain vibe--not to mention its streets being rife with history on every corner--that its hard not to love it. From goose-stepping Nazis to impressionists hawking their wares to generations of backpacking college kids camping out in the Tuilieres gardens--it all feels like it is alive in Paris today, no mater how long ago it happened. Parisians are unapologetic about their history. We all loved the irony of placing a Ferris wheel, more or less, on the spot where Marie Antoinette and her ilk were guillotined. Where else in the world do you put a kiddie ride on the spot of a famous person's death? Most people would have a plaque or a memorial. Not the French. They are shameless about tarting up Versailles with horrid modern art (nowadays, you must look past a plastic rendering of Michael Jackson and Bobo the monkey to take in the King's bedroom). At the same time, the top floor of the Musee Orsay is sacred space. I fell in love anew with VanGogh. What sad, tragic, brilliant painter. Loved the Orsay. Loved the Orangerie. Loved the Eiffel Tour by night. LOVED felafels in the Jewish Quarter. Didn't love the Louvre. I feel guilty for saying that. How dare I not love the Louvre. I love museums. I've queued in line for many museums of lesser status and thoroughly enjoyed everything about those museums. But the Louvre left me a little blitzed. Imagining the opening scenes of the DaVinci Code was probably the most entertaining aspect of the visit. "And that's where Sauniere's body was laid out in the pentagram with all the blood..." The rest of the time I felt like I was fighting for life and limb just to make it up an escalator with my purse, ticket and sanity in tact. My favorite moment was when my niece Ruby, after noting the throng around the "Mona Lisa", proclaimed, "I can't see!" and proceeded to crawl underneath a sea of legs, up beyond the security barrier right to the front where she was gently escorted away from DaVinci's most famous girl. I have been in Disneyland in August and managed easier crowds than the Louvre. Loved Michaelangelo's "Slaves." Loved DaVinci's "Madonna on the Rocks." Loved the Louvre-Rivoli metro stop font. It is the only stop on the Paris metro stop that uses this font. Wish I could find it and use it on my blog. Loved the garishly out of place pyramid over the lobby. In Paris, it makes a strange sort of sense. Won't be going back anytime soon. I'll be saving up my crowd queuing karma for the opening of Harry Potter World at Universal Studios Florida.

What Happened Over Our Christmas Vacation--a story in several parts, not in order...

I'm going to write these entries out of order. I'm just in one of those moods. I'll start off with Sara's story because I think it is more interesting than tales of meltdowns in Finnish grocery stores and complaints about the French ability to queue aren't what I'm in the mood to write about today. And what can you say about Switzerland? Boy, is it clean. Best restroom in the world is at the Gruyere Cheese factory, hands down. No one would ever get Hep A if we took a lesson from the Swiss sanitary habits. That being said, there are points of interest beyond self-cleaning toilets, all night cook-a-thons in Helsinki, being trampled before the Mona Lisa and watching "Australia" at a movie theater on the Champs Elysees. On Sunday, January 4, after a lovely holiday in Switzerland and Paris, we prepared to send Sara back to the US. She's done this flight what, five, six times now? She's flown back and forth between Western Europe, Russia and the US enough times that she can sleepwalk through JFK--this is saying something. The worst part of the journey, typically, is Sheremetyvo Airport. On some surveys, Sheremetyvo nips at the heels of Charles DeGaulle as the worst airport in the world. Let's just say that Heathrow is a welcome change from SVO. The trip started off poorly whenI discovered that the Moscow-Atlanta flight was delayed by 90 minutes. I gave Sara some rubles for a snack, she went through at least three security checks just to get to the gate and then we waved good-bye.I had plenty to do that afternoon. We were joining the Moscow, Russia and Moscow, Russia-West districts on a week long temple trip to Helsinki, Finland. An overnight train to St. Petersburg followed by a day long bus trek was ahead of us. We ate normal food (you never eat normal food on a Russian train), packed our bags and went to our cattle car third class bunk on the Petersburg train. And then we checked the Delta website to see what the status was of Sara's flight. The webpage said: DIVERTED. You expect delayed, in flight, landing, boarding but not DIVERTED. There are only a handful of reasons to divert a plane: mechanical problems, medical emergency, terrorism and inflight disruption. None of those are happy. Especially for a parent crammed into a cramped coffin of a bunk on a Russian train heading off into the bleak, freezing cold expanse of northern Russia. We tried using a calling card to contact anyone we could find in the US. No luck. I tried my brother Peter's cellphone in Geneva--he has Vonage VOIP and could call Delta for us. No answer. We finally sent an email to Parry's brother who had been charged to pick her up in SLC and take her back to university. The long and the short of the email was "FIND HER." And then we waited. All through the long night in the cramped bunk, my ipod noise-reducing headphones crammed in my ears, my Kindle hugged close to my chest so it didn't accidentally fall down the 5 feet from my bunk to the floor. In the morning we discovered that she had been diverted to Newfoundland, the first airport you can touchdown at once you're across the Atlantic. Not a great sign. She was delayed so long she missed her connection in Atlanta. What a wonderful development when your child has an 8AM econ class. The story of what happened on the flight is copypasted into this entry. The bottom line is this: Parry's brother Peter worked a miracle and got Sara back to SLC on Monday morning. The other people on that flight had to wait until Tuesday evening. Her luggage was lost, she hadn't had much sleep but she made it in one piece. We are eternally grateful for Peter helping her out. As a parent, it ranks up there as one of the scarier moments I've had, crossing your fingers that your child isn't on the flight where the suicide bomber has figured out how to mix the Delta lavatory handsoap with the lip balm in his bag to make an explosive device. In some respects the situation is pretty funny and fairly typical if you know what it is like traveling with Russian. That being said, I don't think Sara is that keen on traveling back to Russia any time soon. Perhaps a double major in European Studies isn't what she wants after all :)

Unruly Passenger Forces Emergency Landing Of Delta Flight

Sunday, January 4, 2009 – updated: 9:00 pm EST January 4, 2009 ATLANTA -- A Delta Air Lines flight bound for Atlanta was forced to make an emergency landing Sunday due to an unruly passenger.A Delta representative, who called the incident a security threat, told Channel 2 it happened aboard flight 47. Officials said the plane took off from Moscow and made an emergency landing in the Canadian town of Gander, Newfoundland.Delta said there are about 200 passengers on the Boeing 767.They confirmed the plane was met with Royal Canadian mounted patrol in Gander.Delta didn’t release details Sunday, but said the incident was grave enough to re-route the flight to another country where the problem passenger could be dealt with Sunday.“They are going to get everyone back to Atlanta safely,” said Delta spokesman Susan Elliott. “This is a rare occurrence.”The flight was scheduled to land at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport Sunday night.Copyright 2009 by WSBTV.com. All rights reserved.

Atlanta-bound Delta jet diverted to Canada

Unruly Russian passenger in jail in Newfoundland after being restrained by 8 people

By CHRISTIAN BOONE

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Sunday, January 04, 2009

An unruly passenger so disrupted an international Delta Air Lines flight that the Atlanta-bound plane was diverted to a Canadian airport where authorities took the subject into custody. Flight 47 from Moscow to Atlanta made an unscheduled stop Sunday at Gander International Airport in Newfoundland, and the passenger was removed by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, said Delta spokeswoman Susan Elliott. Canadian authorities identified the passenger as Sergey Kotsur, 39, of Russia. Elliott said the decision to eject the passenger was made by the plane’s captain. She would not release details about Kotsur’s actions. According to a RCMP news release, the plane “was diverted as the result of an intoxicated, unruly male passenger.” The plane was carrying 206 passengers when it departed Moscow earlier Sunday. It landed at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport about 10 p.m., more than four hours behind schedule. Flight 47 passenger Eric Feliciano, waiting for his luggage late Sunday night after clearing customs, said the Russian passenger was sitting ahead of him in coach. He noticed an empty 1.5-liter bottle of Chivas Regal next to the man’s seat. Kotsur allegedly started fighting with his wife and banging on the side of the aircraft. “He was drunk,” said Feliciano, 40, a Tallahassee, Fla. resident who was returning home from vacation.. “I was afraid he was going to try to jump out of the plane or something.” Another passenger, Irakli Bolkvadze, 30, of Moscow, said he watched as crew members assisted by others confronted Kotsur. “The steward said some guy was sick,” and that he had mixed alcohol with “pills,” said Bolkvadze, who was flying to the United States for a vacation. It took eight people — male and female flight attendants and passengers including Feliciano — to hold Kotsur. They tried putting him in plastic wrist binders, but “he broke the restraints a couple of times,” the Florida man said. After police took Kotsur off the plane and put him in a police car, he tried to kick out a window of the vehicle, Feliciano said. He said he came to the crew’s aid because “you do what you need to do when you see a disturbance like that.” Kotsur remains in jail on assault and mischief charges. He is scheduled to appear in Gander Provincial Court on Wednedsday. — Staff writer Ben Smith contributed to this article.