Winding Up

I’m very fortunate that everyone wanted to come see me in Moscow. I had a great time showing them around and playing tour guide when we were together. But more than that, it felt wonderful to have loved ones in this alien, albeit fascinating, place where more often than not it is clear to me that I’m really on my own.

Dad tried to read signs the whole time he was here. He got better at decoding Russian as the days went by. But he tended to notice odd things. A walk down the street in St. Petersburg, when I was soaking in the beauty of the city perched on rivers and canals was when he pointed out the rain downspouts on buildings. He’s right – they’re huge; indicating all sorts of things like heavy weather and lots of snow, etc. But I didn’t notice it.

Dad doesn’t usually communicate with his hands very much. But when he was afraid of not being understood, he tended to gesticulate wildly with both hands – each moving independently and menacingly. Russians would look at him for a moment, focus on his hands for several seconds before looking back up his face and then leaning back a little. That was usually my clue to jump in with Russian and explain what he wanted. Even with the concierges and other service people fluent in English.

Mom was impressed with the grandeur and beauty of the country and the cultural legacy. But she didn’t especially like the chaos of Russia. No lines, just crowds of people milling about and cutting each other off all the time. That’s not her style – but definitely the style of 140 million people here.

In all, the trip was like one big Russian language exam for me – directions, setting up travel, ordering meals, changing money, explaining most things. I did okay, but it did get kind of hard – I’d often get an explanation from someone, then turn to Mom or Dad and rephrase it in Russian. I wasn’t much help doing that.

I’m also not very good at negotiating cabs – we got fleeced almost everywhere we went.

But life for me is already returning to its pattern of weird little surprises.

After work, I noticed a young soldier on a path to intercept me, with a buddy of his hanging back. What I thought was going to be trouble turned out to be profoundly sad. He approached sheepishly, barely met eye contact, and very politely asked if I had spare change to help a couple soldiers get something to eat. I asked what he meant and he apologized profusely and started to back off. Being in the army here these days is a severe hardship, and when he explained that they didn’t have enough to eat I cleaned out my wallet. I handed over 90 rubles and ended up apologizing to him because it was so little. The look on his face – I swear he was near tears over the gift of a measly $3.

When I got back to my apartment I was stopped in the lobby by the superintendent’s son. This little piker is about 3 years old and no higher than my knee. He blocked the doorway as well as such a little person could. When I asked if I could pass, he firmly answered “No.”
“So what are you, the new security guard?” I asked.
“I’m the duty officer,” he said.
“Can I go past you?”
“No.”
“Hey Papa,” I implored his father. “Can you help me out?”
Dad looked up from his paper, shrugged, and without a word went back to reading.
The tiny guard let me by to the elevator, but continued to grill me.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going to the 5th floor.”
“What’s on the 5th floor? Are you going home?”
“Yes. I live there.”
“Well, OK then,” he consented.