What a long strange trip its been

On Tuesday,  I became violently ill in the car. 

Tuesday was supposed to be the day that I explored the Ostozhenka neighborhood for my architecture group and went to lunch in Chistye Prudye for my book club. I had ambitiously hoped to stop by the grocery store for fresh fruit for Abby's lunches. I made it to Krylatsky Hills (Parry's office), asked to use the facilities (went through TWO security checks for the privilege), threw up everything my stomach and proceded to take the metro into town to run one critical errand. No fun on Starry Arbat, having my MakTost from McD's. No lovely lunch. Just march down to my architecture group leader's house, retrieve a two-wheeled shopping trolley's worth of thermoses and haul back to the Smolyenskaya metro as fast as possible.

By the time I arrived in Rosinka, I crawled onto the couch, feeling like death with the addition of an exploding migraine. I don't remember what I did except feel like the inside of a barf bag on a transatlantic flight.

Wednesday, I had another "must do" meeting and a flu shot scheduled at Anglo American. I did what I rarely do and I  took a strong (read: narcotic) painreliever, in a SMALL dose, to get me through the morning. I had to meet three lovely ladies for a meeting at Akademia Cafe by Christ the Savior Cathedral. Did I mention I was in charge? I was now having all the symptoms of the weirdest infection ever--stomach issues, sinus issues, headache, backache, swollen glands, low grade fever. Yet I marched through my meeting, sipping my thyme tea and did a walkthrough the Ostozhenka neighborhood in all its nouveau riche Luzhkovian glory. In the midst of all this, I had some nagging feeling about getting home. How was I planning on getting home? I knew there was a plan but I couldn't recall it. I had scheduled not one, but three trips to the center for this week and I had some memory that this was the day I needed to catch the 3:55PM bus to get home. Or was it?

One of the cool ladies I was working with volunteered to have her driver take me home. She had a sweet late model black Mercedes sedan with a young, eager to please and friendly young man behind the steering wheel. Being half dazed from starvation (At this point, I had been living off crackers, Coca-Cola and white bread for more than 24 hours) and a little whacked from the codeine, I couldn't help but say yes.  Who doesn't like being treated like a princess in a nice car?

I staggered home, day two, took my migraine medicine (no codeine) and started to sort out all my notes for the architecture walk. At 3:45, my cellphone rings. A number I don't recognize. I couldn't figure out who it was until the caller identified himself as my driver, Andre. The fact that I don't recognize my driver's cellphone should be a clue as to what a great relationship I have with my driver. I had totally spaced off that my husband had scheduled my driver to pick me up at the school. I felt horrible but at the same time, I thought that if the only thing I've really done wrong in 3 years is to forget a pick up, he's pretty lucky.

Still, I felt like I was doing a walk of shame to the car today on my way to pick up Lindsey for lunch. He must think I'm really stupid. Of course, I think that my behavior yesterday only affirms what he already thinks. Lindsey and I took an extra long time at lunch today. We filled the car with groceries. Our timing meant we were stuck in the post-school traffic rush. I unapologetically sat in the back, reading Anna Karenina. He didn't offer to help me carry my groceries to the house and I thought "Good riddance. You're getting PAID to help me."

I did eat one meal today that wasn't Coca-Cola and crackers. I had Linguine Goodman and green salad. However, I don't think I can manage more than that. I suspect I may actually have an ulcer, believe it or not because no matter what I eat or what I do, my stomach hurts.

Continuing the theme of the weird week: this morning, I woke up from a nightmare where I dreamed that I had been murdered and had my head cut off. I borrowed another body, sewed the head back on my dead corpse, then tried to confront the people (who looked like middle class housewives) who murdered me and threw me in a dumpster. They didn't recognize me, naturally, because I was in a new body. I woke up just as  the murder investigation was getting underway. This time, the Nestle water delivery man, who had been TOLD not to come until 11AM, showed up at 7:30 (I had been up at 5:30, sent Abby to school at 6:30 and crawled back into bed).  When I showed up at the door bleary eyed in my PJ's, I suspect he got the message that the customer was ticked--when I say 11, I mean 11.Whether I am grateful that he woke me up from a nightmare or cranky because I had a lousy sleep, I can't say.

I still have a headache. I still can't eat normally. I have architecture walk tomorrow and I will take to my couch as soon as I get home.  YES I CAN! I can survive this weird week. I can grow my brain back. I can wrap my brain around the weather forecast that says we'll have snow on Tuesday and we'll be looking at below zero temperatures for the remainder of the week.

I keep telling myself that I have 23 days until fall break.

The Sunny Side of the Street

Expat Year 4 Goal: Optimism

1. The 2.5 hours it takes to wash my whites gives me time to walk three times or more around Rosinka.

2. Speaking of walking around Rosinka, at least twice a week, I have brand new episodes of "This American Life" and "The Moth" to listen to. Both are free and will not trigger the iTunes lockout that happens to people like me who download outside the continental United States. Bonus.

3. I don't have to stay up late to watch the new fall TV shows. I can find them uploaded, however dubious the legality, and watch them on my computer at my kitchen table while I chop onions. I can check televisionwithoutpity to see if the episodes are worth watching. Less time wasted. Check.

4. The amount of time it takes to get from Rosinka to school is perfect for napping.

5. I'm not losing a sister-friend with Lindsey moving to London, I am gaining a new couch to sleep on when I have the chance to leave Russia.

6. Parry's month of traveling may mean he'll hit Gold Medallion status this year so he can be in the "Sky Team Elite" line at the airport.

7. The discovery that my $15 restaurant cheeseburger was chewy raw in spots has been incentive to save my money. I haven't lost a convenient eat out option, I've become more thrifty. Yay for homecooking!

8. The gray and overcast weather has given me a chance to break out a few cute fall items from my closet. A favorite is a black corduroy A-line skirt from Boden. I may buy it in denim.

9. Going back to the US for Abby's December endocrinology appointment isn't an expensive holiday detour, it's the chance to buy Christmas in person instead of from Amazon.  Also--to pack Rachel and Allyson's bags for their Russia flight. It will save me the stress of sitting in front of the computer, refreshing the Delta flight status website every 15 minutes to make sure that JFK isn't snowed in. Instead, I'll be waiting for mobile phone updates. Much more convenient.

10. Our rent only went up a little this year. The bus fares went up a little. And inflation will only be 10%. I don't eat buckwheat so the fact that every store is sold out of it is okay.

The truth is I have a lot to be grateful for. I am cognizant every day of the randomness of life and the seemingly arbitrary nature of tragedy and trial.  There have been moments in the last 4 months when I felt like I was suffocating slowly from the stress. Now that I have a moment to breathe, I am determined to enjoy my blessings. I have no idea what the future will bring. There is no question that 2010 will go down as the "transition year." I suspect that 2011 will bring transitions as well as we figure out whether we will stay in Russia beyond our contract (ends in August) or whether we return to the US (where?) or whether we stay international.  I have my suspicions, but I'm keeping my cards close until more time passes. In the meantime, I have another expat goal.

Expat Year 4 Goal #2: Live in the moment.

Bring it, Mother Russia.

Volcanation

From: Heather Jarman (on spring break in Bountiful, Utah)

April 17, 2010

Dear Family:

So instead of putting this up on facebook and boring everyone to death, this is our status.
This morning, I went to check in for our flight and discovered that our flight from JFK to Moscow was cancelled for tomorrow, arriving Monday. The same flight was cancelled for today's flyers. My understanding is the problem isn't that Russian airspace is closed--it is that there isn't enough safe airspace in the adjacent countries for international flights to fly. This could change as the ash is projected to move continually east and Moscow may eventually close. The only flights that seem to be getting into Moscow are from Asia and many of those have substantive delays. I called Delta to rebook--the phone wait was more than an hour so I got in the car and went to the airport.

What you think about the week after a terorrist attack

Yesterday, my friend Lindsey asked me when I was going to blog again. February was a black hole. March has been a month of long, long days and a lot of mixed feelings--people are excited about moving (not us--we're in Moscow at least until August 2011), my twins--for graduating; Sara is making big life decisions. Parry is traveling, traveling, traveling. He weathered not one, but two airport/airline strikes in two countries. Now the sun is out, the snow is melting and my brain is starting to wake up again.

A dear friend of mine emailed me and asked me how I felt about what happened in Moscow on Monday when two female suicide bombers detonated explosives inside two very busy Moscow metro stations. Instead of writing a separate blog entry, I'm going to copy-paste the email I wrote her in reply. Let me be clear: I have no desire to be a dramatic diva about this. My family is fine. My friends are fine. I don't know of anyone in my acquaintances who was hurt. That being said, I'm a bit mentally shaken, especially as I read a report today that says there are as many as 21 "Black Widow" bombers out there lined up to take their turn attacking Russia. Here's the email:

Hi B:

I've been thinking about how to answer this email for the better part of my waking hours. I didn't want to be glib and say that of course it has rattled me, but the world is a tough place and I'll soldier on. I didn't want to say that I'm fine either because I'm not. I'm not at all but not in the ways I expected. Thank you for asking me not just if I was safe, but how I felt. Thank you for caring. Right now, that means more to me than just about anything that anyone has done for me in a long time.

Yesterday, Abby called me from school around 9:30AM. She never calls me from school. They had announced what happened during an assembly. She asked me, sounding terrified, if dad had taken the metro today. Without saying it, she was asking if her dad had been in the blast because she knows that Parry takes the metro quite regularly when he's going places during the work day. She knew he was leaving town and she was scared. Of course Parry was fine, but the fact that she, even for a moment, had to question what was going on, was unnerving. It made all of it seem more personal. She's 14. She shouldn't have to worry about her dad getting blown up on the metro.

Last night, I went to one of the expat forums to see what people were saying. The media here gives us nothing but sound bites and the government takes such fanatical control of the story that it is tough to know what really happened. Usually the expat forums have someone who knows something. As I was cruising through the posts, I found a youtube link to footage that someone took inside the Park Kultury metro station from the train opposite the train that was attacked. Apparently the person taking the footage was exiting the station and was filming what could be seen. I have replayed that footage five hundred times in my mind. I don't know why I watched except to see that it was real. It was horrifying. And really, only someone who has been in that metro station and ridden the metro as much as I have can appreciate what insanity it was.

There weren't any screams. The station was silent as a tomb except for the recorded announcement the metro train play at every stop before the doors close. There were bodies on the platform. Smoke. But what horrified me was the stairs.

Park Kultury is an older metro and the stairs are well-worn grey streaked marble instead of escalators. Yes, really marble. Stalin went through a phase where he blew up churches and other bourgeoisie buildings but sacked them of all their valuable building materials beforehand. The Moscow metro is filled with oppulent, slightly rickety fixures in the way that you would expect from Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. Park Kultury reminds me of a shabby government building that has seen better days. It stands out in my metro travels, because you have to walk up the stairs to exit. The last time I was there, it was winter, my shoes were wet and I was worried I would slip and go tumbling down the stairs.

The stairs were covered with bloody footprints. People were trudging up the stairs in silence, tracking blood everywhere. Bright red blood, smudged, dripping--all over. As I watched them walk, I looked at those stairs imagining the times I have walked those exact stairs, bounding up, sometimes two at a time, in a hurry to meet someone. Sara went up and down those stairs three or four times a day for 4 months--her university was on that line. You don't expect someplace you know to look like that.

It occured to me that if I had been on that train, I wouldn't even be able to understand what was happening. I don't speak enough Russian to even know what to say. If I, or my husband, had been injured, how would we have explained who to call or what to do or what was going on? To be trapped in this nightmare and be completely helpless to understand it--to have to go to the hospitals and look at the white boards sitting out outside the entrances, trying to find the names of someone you knew that was missing--how would it be done? I'm in RUSSIA. I don't even know where the Emergency Services Hospital is! I use private medical facilities with European management and glibbly say, "If something bad happens, I'm going to be medivac'ed to Germany or Finland." If I was unconscious on a metro platform, what would happen to me? Would anyone who found my ID even be able to read the English name and information written there? What would happen to Parry? He speaks less Russian than I do. That scares me.

I've spent weeks in the Lubyanka neighborhood, prepping for my architecture presentation. The Lubyanka neighborhood, for the record, is predominantly owned/managed/houses former KGB and now FSB facilities. Walking up Bolyshaya Lubyanka street, beyond the obvious office buildings with the hammer and sickle on them, you wouldn't necessarily guess that some of these rather ordinary 18th century neo-classical apartment buildings are actually FSB owned and once were residences for people like Felix Dzherzhinsky, murderer and KGB founder. We would walk around, joking that we needed to be careful that the FSB/KGB would start to wonder what these foreign ladies were doing poking around all this highly sensitive areas for so many days. Now, as all the FSB drones are pouring through weeks of surveillance footage, trying to find evidence of these terrorists, part of me is wondering if we will show up on that footage, that somehow we are in the narrative--part of the story--and we didn't even know it.

One of my expat friends has lived here forever. Her husband is a the bureau chief of a very prestigious and important journalism outfit. She told me, while we were on our walk through the Lubyanka neighborhood, that if most expats knew half of what went on in this city, we would never leave our houses--and that she marvelled at how naive and innocent we were in assuming that everything as it appeared. The veneer of safety is just that--a venner, she insisted. After yesterday I am filtering what I'm seeing through that lens and I'm wondering if what I see is real--what of my reality is constructed from truth and what is fantasy. I have always prided myself on not being one of those expats who lives in a bubble. I don't romanticize Russia, but I don't villianize her either. I like to think of myself as a realist. I honestly don't know what is real.

This city always teeters on the edge of paranoia. This incident will make that worse--far worse--to the point of making the claustrophobia that I sometimes feel choked by as I'm making my way through the crowds, become smothering. My friend Becky told me once that you don't realize how exhausted Russia makes you until you leave and the weight of it is removed. That weight has grown over the last 24 hours. I worry that the already corrupt and dangerous police force will use the pretense of security to harrass innocent people and demand more bribes. I worry about more check points in the center and travel and fret about making sure every date, stamp and spelling on my official documents is in order 24 hours a day in case I am stopped. Today, I went to the mall because I had to look at something that wasn't my house. I am waaay behind on a lot of things, but being in my head was a bad space. The security guards stopped the car on the way in to search the trunk. That has never happened before. There are security and police everywhere.

I play the degrees of separation game. Parry has an employee who was on the Park Kultury platform. I know Parry. Parry knows him. Two of my church friends, Arteyom and Anastasia, transfer through Park Kultury on their way to home or school every day. Arteyom missed the blast by 10 minutes. Ten minutes is the difference between making or missing a light at a crosswalk or transfering from one metro station to another at a brisk walk or a stroll. You don't think that how fast you walk would make a difference, but in Arteyom's case, it may have made the difference between whether he walked into a death trap or missed it.

I will carry on and be a grown up about this. I'm not going to dramatize this because I wasn't there and I don't know anyone yet who was in the blast. That could change. The red line is one of the busiest in the city. Parry says that all their employees are not accounted for yet--at least as of last night--and they are going through the process. I'm sure it will be fine and that people who were on their way to work just freaked out and went home and couldn't be reached on their phone. The FSB jammed the mobile reception in and around the city in specific places because there was a theory--no idea if it is fact yet--that the bombs were detonated via cellphone. Calling people on mobiles was a disaster for most people in the center yesterday.

But I'm still processing, thinking, wondering. Will Putin decide to go to war with the Chechens again? Will there be another attack? Will it be soon? Will this incident totally freak out my relatives who are already nervous about visiting? I am grateful my family is safe. I am glad that Parry was flying yesterday instead of taking the train--he would have been on and off the metro if he were taking the train. I am grateful that my architecture group is on hiatus until after the easter holidays. I'm grateful my children attend an international diplomatic school that is as good as an embassy when it comes to protection. I wonder how I will feel when I get on the metro next time--Saturday in fact--and whether I will turn up my ipod and zone out to my happy music or whether I will be watchful, vigiliant and paranoid.

I'm watching a lot of cable television. The stupid Russian news keeps playing the same stupid footage over and over again. I'm sure the powers that be are trying to figure out what the narrative and spin is going to be. I'm sure they're trying to find answers. So I've stopped watching the news and I watch Discovery Travel and Living. I watch the trainwreck that is now Jon and Kate Plus Eight and more of Kat Von D than anyone should ever watch. I watch anything that reminds me that somewhere in the world are people who still care very passionately about ridiculous things like how much plastic surgery Heidi Montag has. That is where my head is.

Hopefully somewhere in this ramble you can find something that makes sense.

Miss you back,

H

I don't really hate Russia

I have a love/hate relationship with it. I love the rich, diverse history behind this complex country. I love that every day, Moscow surprises me. Not always a good surprise, but surprise keeps me on my toes. I love that my children are exposed to real world issues and have a diverse peer group that, for better or for worse, has forced them to be world citizens at a young age. I love that living here has forced me to simplify my life. Logistics here are too hard to live a complicated life. I love that living here is keeping me far, far away from the politic trainwrecks in the US. I avoid the nightly tantrums of the pundits, thank heavens. However, right now I hate Russia more than I love it. I have never thrived in dark, cold winter days, either here or in Portland. I'm not picking on Moscow exclusively. I'm not a winter gal. I think one of the aspects of living here that makes it hard is that very few people actually understand my life. I remember visiting the US after my first year in Russia and feeling like I didn't belong anymore. I can't recall exacty what set me off, but I remember an epic rant about how I felt like a circus freak with people "ooing" and "ahhing" about the oddities of my daily life from maifia neighbors to traffic horror stories (3 hours to go 20 kilometers was a favorite). I felt like I was being asked to put on a little skit telling people about all the stuff we do that is weird, alien, exotic and scary. I felt like a performing monkey on a leash with a little pillbox hat on my head. I am not a performance artist or a guest on an NPR podcast. This is my *life.* This is my normal, like it or not, and it is hard that most of the people that are closest to me don't get that. In more than two years, I have only had four visitors, two family members (in-laws) and two friends. I love talking to my two friends who visited me because I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN ANYTHING. They get the punchlines. My daughters ask me from time to time if it hurts my feelings that no one wants to visit us. I tell them no, truthfully, because this is not what I call a warm, welcoming tourist destination. Russia is a tough nut to crack--an expensive one at that. You pay a lot of money to come here and are often treated badly once you arrive (unless, of course, you have me to run interference for you). Sheremeteyvo airport alone is enough to send some people running for cover--I know it was for me the first time I arrived there in 110F August heatwave with aggresive taxi drivers, cigarette smoke, and concrete--one of my first impressions of Russia was all the concrete. I understand why people are scared or intimidated at the prospect of a Russia trip. This is a big, misunderstood, messy country that is teetering on the brink of totalitarianism on any given day. I get that people wouldn't want to visit here when you can say, look at fairy tale castles in Germany or contemplate history on the beaches of Crete or Malaga or eat culinary delights in Italy. Besides, Russian food is terrible. That being said, I miss being understood. I realized this when my brother called me on Monday night. He is my first blood relative to visit me here. And he didn't even come to visit me--he came on a business trip. The fact that I'm here is a bonus. He told me about his bizarro taxi ride from the airport (not even Sheremeteyvo--the civilized airport, Domededevo), the awful traffic, the buzz in the air--the hint of an oppressive feeling that people, particularly from the West, sense when they visit Moscow. My German friend (formerly from the East) tells me that East Germany used to feel like this. She didn't realize this feeling wasn't everywhere until she visited the West. I get so used to it that I often don't notice it until I land in the airport of another country and psychic weight lifts from my shoulders. I felt a lump in my throat that felt vaguely like desperation as I talked to him. I was making a connection. He gets it. I didn't realize how hungry I was for that connection until I heard him talking about his Moscow experiences. Tonight, we will take the metro into town to meet him for dinner. We are going to Starlite Diner, the place we expats go when we want to pretend for five minutes that we aren't in Russia. We will take him to Red Square so he can have proof that he *was* in Russia and then we will wave goodbye. And maybe I will hate Russia a little less tomorrow.

CABIN FEVER

These are the times that try men's souls. And women's. And children's and everyone else who lives in a northern climate during the winter. We aren't as bad as Helsinki. But Helsinki has wonderful grocery stores, movies in English and that hardy Scandinavian outdoorsy spirit. They also have one of the highest suicide rates in the world. Moving on.... Our skies primarily come in three colors: grey, dark grey, and black. From time to time, we get blue with the caveat that the suun rarely lasts longer than six hours, cutting across the corner of the sky, tantalizing us with promise of natural vitamin D and warmth. The warmth is an illusion. The vitamin D? Last year, my vitamin D levels were at 17. Optimal is around 32. For an asthmatic like myself, temperatures below 15F make any outside activity difficult. The closer the temperature gets to 0F, the greater my chances for a serious asthma attack. This leaves me with yoga and the treadmill as my primary forms of excercise. Also, walking up and down the stairs works too. There is only so much time you can spend indoors exercising and sitting and checking facebook before you start to go a little wacko. I spend probably a half an hour a day on Expedia pricing plane tickets and hotel rooms to get me out of Dodge whenever possible. I muse on the merits of various laundry detergents (!) and get excited by the prospect of three year old reruns of "What Not to Wear" on Discovery Travel and Living. I spend days fantasizing about fresh produce. A few years ago, I went to a farmer's market in Orvieto, Italy. The fresh tomatoes tasted like sugar candy. Those ruby orbs taunt me like the mirage of water torments a man crawling through the desert. Blood oranges, roasted turnips, spinach salad, peaches, raspberries, big old Yukon Gold potatoes.... The good news is that my architecture group starts up again this Friday and we're going to the Tretyakov Gallery to study Russian Orthodox iconography. Also, my brother should be visiting us next week--also positive. Once January is over, I will feel like we've turned a corner and the count down to spring can realistically start. Soon we will be celebrating Maslenitsa (pancake week) and before you know it, winter break in Greece. After that, it will be International Women's Day and I'll be on my way to the UK for a few days. In the meantime, it is the short term stuff that makes me crazy. Like how to get through today's piles of laundry and floors that need washing and refrigerator that needs cleaning without starting to go a little stir crazy and cooped up. Enough with the cold! Enough with the grey! Enough with the musings on laundry detergent!

the eagles live the heart of the matter

The inspiration for the title of my post. Hated the Don Henley album version, but this acoustic one moves me every time I hear it.

The Heart of the Matter

I come from a long line of grudge holders. We are world class in latching onto the smallest thing and using it as an excuse to be bitter for years, even decades. I didn't recognize this tendency in myself until I was in my thirties. Anger that had been simmering in me for eons finally erupted, consuming my thoughts and poisoning my heart.

I will never forget the day when I realized the self-destructive nature of refusing to forgive. I was in the Oak Hills park with my children, helping one of them on the swing. It was a typical overcast Portland day, nothing special. As I moved from child to child, ruminating on my grudge, a voice spoke to my heart reminding me of the bibical admonition: Judge not lest ye be judged. The weight of that epiphany struck me: I would be judged, by God, as I judged others. I also recognized that I would shrink if subjected to the withering criticism that I was subjecting others too. In that moment, I let go. A weight lifted from my soul. Since that day, I have improved. I am far from perfect, but I am less inclined to focus my energy on my grudges. I have not entirely succeeded.

I have to be careful in telling this story because there are innocent, well-meaning people who were caught in the middle of this particular scenario. I will speak in generalities as much as I can.

I have a unusually ability to perceive how events will happen before they happen. Not all the time, but enough that I have plenty of ammo to say "I told you so." In November, circumstances arranged themselves that I recognized that if I made a specific series of choices, there was a high chance I would end up in a situation I didn't want to be in. More like, a situation I dreaded with every fiber of my being and had the potential to trigger panic attack levels of anxiety. My husband told me I was being silly and irrational and paranoid. So I went along with my husband, trusting--hoping--that I was wrong. I took steps to protect myself, hoping that things would turn out differently than I had foreseen. I made a resolve that I would stand my ground and I would not go along with any situation that I wasn't completely okay with.

Right about the time I returned from Boston and that nightmarish travel experience, it became apparent that events were afoot that would land me in the exact predicament that I had tried to avoid.

When I realized what was happening, I spent a day collapsed on the couch, despondent. I cried myself to sleep. I cried in the middle of the day. I shut down. I haven't done that since we first moved to Russia and I was coping with bouts of depression. In many respects, this turn of events tainted my holidays; an undercurrent of anxiety was my constant companion and I was filled with dread. A lead weight filled me. I couldn't believe that after all that I had done--and tried to do--this very unfair burden would be placed on me. I did what I could to mitigate the damage, to try and find a way to make the situation more fair. I talked to people who had decision making power. I tried, futilely to stand my ground.

Long story short: it became apparent that yes, I could stand my ground and get out of the mess, but getting out of the mess wasn't the right thing to do. There was no one else who could do what needed to be done. I had been bullied and railroaded into a circumstance where the choice was between doing what was fair--what I wanted--and what was needed. I could foresee that the "fair" option would have unintended ripples--negative ripples that wouldn't be fair to others. So I went along with it, I took one for the team so that others wouldn't haven't to pay for my justice crusade.

This is the problem I'm wrestling with: I am still angry. I have a bitter taste in my mouth every time I think of the individual whose sloppiness, perhaps even laziness and thoughtlessness, put me in such a bad position. I am confident that this individual is completely unaware of my feelings, most likely oblivious. Something important was taken from me that I will not be able to get back. Some lovely things happened too, but I am still tipping back and forth on the fulcrum of "fair," and "justice," wanting some kind of recognition that I was messed over. It isn't like anything can be undone.

Maybe I want an apology. Maybe I want a recognition that I was right in predicting the situation I landed in. Maybe I want someone to say, "I'm sorry." I need someone to care what happened and at least acknowledge the fact that I was wronged and acknowledge what was lost because this idiot's behavior. I want someone to hurt because I was hurt. I've had sympathy. I want justice.

I don't know why this is bothering me so much. I want--I need--to let go. But I won't lie: I've played and replayed the scenario in my head where I see this individual and I get to say exactly what I think and it isn't pretty. It is incisive and articulate so no doubt can be left in this person's mind. The odds are that won't happen because there's another competing voice in my head that says "Be the adult. Be the bigger person. Be like Jesus. Your problems can hardly compare to His." I don't want to be the bigger person. I want this individual to cry like a little girl and say, "Wow, Heather. I blew it and I'm sorry" and mean it.

I know that how events played out made a positive difference in some people's lives. I received a sweet thank you note from someone just yesterday that made me pause in my grudge holding and recognize that yes, someone, somewhere, cared and understood my sacrifice. They used words like "love" and "joy" and "gratitude" and service"--about ME. Me. Miss Resentful 2010. There is no question that I was sustained by a power beyond myself, enabling me to accomplish something I didn't think I could. Shouldn't this be enough? Shouldn't I be grateful that I didn't end up curled in the fetal position having nightmares?

And yet, from time to time, I am consumed with the violent impulse to smack someone hard across the face and kick them in the shins until big black bruises appear. Fair. Fair. Fair. Just. Just. Just.

In this case, I was right. They were wrong. A lot of people stood by wringing their hands, saying how sorry they were, tutting disapprovingly, but that didn't change the outcome. Why didn't they DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! Why didnt' someone PROTECT ME? So why isn't knowing that people are on my side enough?

I had hoped by writing this out I would sort some things out. I think I will be teetering back and forth on the fulcrum for awhile until I can let go. But how?

Curse of the Travel Gods

To blog or not to blog--that is the question. I made a promise to myself that I would avoid blogging when I was bound to write something I would regret. I bit my tongue a lot in December. Therefore, I did not blog. I probably need to write something. So here I go. Also, blogger is doing some wonky things with my formatting. I apologize in advance if this is a mess.

Above is a picture of my dear brother-in-law Peter and his new wife, Kristen. She may be one of the best Christmas presents our extended family has ever received. We love this adventurous, artistic, native New Englander. Parry and I found good (read: reasonably priced) flights from Moscow enabling us to join the festivities in Boston and Newport, Rhode Island.

The adventure going to and from the wedding is another story. Our flight leaving Moscow on Thusday December 10 was delayed by 3.5 hours making our 4 hour layover in JFK irrelevant. We were sitting in baggage claim in customs/passport control watching the minutes tick by as our connecting flight to Boston departed. There was no Delta or Aeroflot representative to be found when we finally got out of customs. We found a nice JetBlue employee who helped us book the last flight of the day to Logan. Naturally that flight was delayed by almost an hour. We landed in Boston at 12:30AM after starting our airport day in Moscow at 12:30PM. By our calculations, with delays, layovers, and flight time, we were traveling for about 24+ hours. We did find our hotel in Lexington, next to Minuteman Historical Park, around 1:45AM. I vaguely recall going to bed and waking up but I can't be sure that I ever slept. Wedding was lovely. The sun shone brightly on a brisk winter day. Usual Jarman family shenanigans being late to the reception ensued (Jarmans have a tendency to be lax about schedules as opposed to my family, the Claytons, who are neurotic about schedules. I have learned to survive it with a good deal of yoga breathing and chocolate). Flowers were lovely. Food was excellent. No one broke any of the china at the New York Yacht club. Even cowboys from west of the Mississippi remember their table manners from time to time. Saturday was a marathon shopping day. We had lists of items to buy for ourselves and our expat neighbors ranging from a laptop computer from Costco for our German friends to multiple bags of shaved organic coconut from Whole Foods for another neighbor. Hubby wanted a suit from Filene's Basement. Suffice it to say, the hardest items to find were marshmellow fluff (yet another neighbor) and Pilsbury Pudding in the Mix yellow cake mix for a forthcoming epic cupcake baking fiesta I had to undertake on behalf of the Anglo-American School class of 2010. Day ended in Boston's Back Bay with exquisite Thai food and a shopping spree, on behalf of my daughters, to Sephora. With plans to visit Modern Pastry and Mike's Pastry for cannoli in the morning, my life attained new heights of bliss. Sunday was return to Moscow day. I should have known that we were in for a long day when we arrived at Logan, on-time of course, to discover that our connection to JFK was delayed by almost two hours due to a incoming storm. An earlier shuttle to LaGuardia had available seats, but we would have to take a taxi from LaGuardia to JFK and along with our four monster suitcases full of groceries. We decided to switch flights and hope traffic between LaGuardia and JFK was do-able. 90 minutes later, they canceled the LaGuardia flight. We bounced back to the JFK flight. Which was delayed again. Lo about 4PM, I was stuffing my face with Fudrucker's bacon cheeseburger and fries, visions of missed connections dancing through my head. The trick with international connections is that typically they close 60 minutes before flight time. We were connecting from Delta to Aeroflot and Aeroflot will not allow electronic check in for US/Russia flights nor will they allow Delta to check you in and assign seats. I have been told this is for immigration/visa reasons. In order to get a boarding pass, we had to physically present ourselves to the Aeroflot desk at JFK before the flight closed. When we were confronted with leaving Logan around 4:20PM, we knew we would have less than 30 minutes from when we touched down to get off the plane, change terminals and check-in. We made it with 5 minutes to spare. Surely, I thought, our bad luck streak had ended. Yes, we were seated in the back of the plane which meant once we landed at Sheremetevyo Airport (regularly listed as one of the worst airports in the world) we would be hard pressed to make it through passport control in under and hour, but hey, we'd be in Moscow, right? 3 hours after boarded our flight, we left JFK. Yes, we sat on the ground, watching the rain, wondering where we were (we had been sent to some obscure corner of the airport by a bunch of warehouses to wait for our turn to take off). We landed in Moscow around 2:15PM. The original scheduled time was 12PM. Sure enough, I was the last one through passport control. By 3:45PM, it became clear that our baggage had been lost. All of it. Including a suitcase that my mother had packed and sent with relatives containing most of our daughters' Christmas gifts. We filed the proper paperwork. Signed a bunch of blank forms (this is scary in Russia--you have no idea what you're signing) and were promised that our bags would arrive on the next flight. Aeroflot would kindly deliver them to our home. All would be well. Never believe a Russian bureaucrat who tells you all will be well. Meanwhile, we had to go straight to hubby's office because he had legal documents that had to be signed before the end of work day. The weather in Moscow, naturally, was dark and foul. When we arrived at Intel's office in Krylatsky, I found an empty cubicle, put my head down and fell asleep. I think we made it home around 7:30PM. Yet another 24 hour+ travel day. Long story short, we had issues with our baggage. It involved many trips to our property management office, asking them to call Aeroflot and find out the status of our luggage. After five days of waiting and calling, property management contacted Aeroflot (after calling three or four different phone numbers) and found out that Aeroflot would not deliver our bags for customs reasons; I would physically have to claim them at the airport. This is Russia's latest ploy to raise money--they are milking customs for everything they can get. People used to be able to get away with loading their bags when they went abroad--these days, not as much unless you are careful and know how to avoid being pulled over for inspection. We had an expat friend with a suitcase full of hams that got nailed this summer. If Russia wants to charge me for that extra bag of Ziploc sandwich bags and Life cereal, they are definitely scraping the bottom for revenue. Thankfully, my friend Elke had a car to take me to the airport. We visited the third world bowels of Sheremeteyvo. This room looked like the warehouse where the US government stored the Lost Ark in Indiana Jones. Hardly a computer in sight--everything was written on ledgers. We spent almost three hours filling out more forms and waiting for customs to decide whether we were being honest about what was in our bags before they finally released the bags to us. The cheese cannoli filling we had bought from Mike's was a bit on the grainy side, but everything else including the all important Trader Joe's Peppermint Jo-Jo's had survived. For good measure, it took almost 2.5 hours to drive the 30 or so kilometers home. At some point, I began to question what the universe might have against me and why everything I attempted during this time period (and continue to attempt--but that's another story) seemed to sour. I'm sure someday I will double over with laughter telling this story, but right now it gives me a headache to even think about. I sometimes wonder why some people are lucky and other people aren't. I don't know if my guardian angels have taken their coffee break over the last month or so, but it seems like I've been taking "one for the team" more often than not. I am painfully aware that my problems are petty in the grand scheme of things which is why I took a blogging hiatus: the last thing I want to do is whine to the world and make it sound like my problems are huge. They aren't. To me they might be big. To the universe at large? Not so much. Someday, when I have permission, I will share a sad story that happened over the holidays. Right now there are confidentiality issues that I have sworn to uphold. Suffice it to say, this story is the story I tell myself whenever I feel the self-pity show taking center stage. In the meantime, the next flight I'm taking is to Athens to see my sister Julie and her family. The weather should be lovely in Greece and there will be lots of feta, cucumber-tomato salad and kebab sandwiches on the Plaka to be enjoyed. As a public service, I'm letting the world at large know that we're flying on Aeroflot, direct to Athens on Saturday February 20 returning a week later. Anyone hoping for a stress-free travel experience probably should consider booking a flight other than the one I'm on....

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.