Deep Thoughts on a Monday Morning

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

Scrapbooking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the rope ends

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

Under the Lilacs

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

Since I Last Saw You....

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

25 random things (my list from Facebook)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sing Your Way Home

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