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.