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.