A Year in Exile

The year I lived in Moscow was a year of extremes, and not just of weather. I was there studying at Moscow State University as part of my graduate program, absorbing the history, language and culture of Mother Russia. Many times during the year I wished I'd chosen French literature instead; I yearned for a place where snow didn't carpet the ground from October through April, groceries could be bought indoors, and the days lasted more than five short hours.

I was lonely there, holed up in my dorm room with the warped windows taped shut, the only way to properly keep out the wind and snow. The Russians my age didn't want much to do with me, though those older and younger were willing to share with me the secrets of their lives. I spent the year trying to perfect my Russian, an effort largely in vain since most Russians I met were simultaneously, and more aggressively, trying to perfect their English. Eventually I found friends, expats like me, and we banded together, a troupe of American misfits who put on brave faces and gaily entertained ourselves, all the while longing for the comforts of home: Ben & Jerry's, Chinese food, Hollywood movies.  At some point someone from home sent a tape of Seinfeld and Friends episodes. We watched them over and over and eventually had them memorized. We'd plop down in our communal room and watch them all the way through, sometimes acting out the lines. Often, when the tape would finish, someone new would walk in, plop down and start the tape over. Whoever had just watched it usually stayed to watch it again.

The food in Russia made life harder. Ten years ago, there weren't many restaurants. Eating out is not something Russians did much. We'd go crazy with cravings for stuff, then hunt high and low for our latest obsession. We finally found a Chinese place in the basement of a dilapidated Soviet-era apartment building nearly an hour's metro ride from the city center. The food didn't taste right -- maybe there was no MSG? -- but we ate loads of it anyway and clapped loudly when one of us tried a shot of voda with cobra bile. The proprietor, a woman unaged except for her hunched back, stiffly carried a huge glass decanter with the lifeless cobra coiled inside. It was gruesome, but we were young and drunk and it made us feel alive.

Shopping was a day-long experience. Vegetables, fruits, nuts and honey were all sold in outdoor markets, no matter the weather. We'd peel off our gloves to count out bills, pull the scarves from our faces so we could be heard. Dark-skinned men from the southern Caucasus worked their stalls, calling out to us, offering to marry us, wanting to know if we were German? French? The thought that we were American never crossed their minds. With them we bartered, first timidly, later shrewdly, for lower prices on knobby carrots, potatoes, cold tomatoes, throwing them in the plastic sacks we took with us everywhere. I'll never forget the day we found broccoli; it was one of the happiest there. Anything to break the monotony.

Small shops closer to home carried cheese, meats, candy. (Lots of candy; every Russian I knew had an incurable sweet tooth. They ate ice cream all winter long, buying it outside and strolling down the Arbat, cone in glove.) It took a while for us to learn how to shop in the gastronom. We'd place an order for cheese at the counter, and a dour-faced woman ten years younger than she looked measured it out, then handed us a slip of paper. We'd collect other slips of paper, the thin pulpy kind that kids color on, and take them to the register and pay. God forbid we didn't have correct change; most of the time they wouldn't let us pay until we could scrape it together. If we were lucky they'd just glare at us and click their tongues, mutter under their breath. Then we'd take the receipt and return to the counter for our cheese and meat, wrapped in paper parcels. None of the women smiled. They would scream at us from across the room if we dropped our paper or took too long to order.  They scared me for the longest time. Then we'd return to the dorms, cold, our arms tired from carrying bags all day, and lug our pots and pans and food into the communal kitchen. It was unheated so we'd hover near the stove, or run back down the hall to our rooms until we thought the water was boiling.

After a year of this -- a year of turning away meat, explaining away my vegetarianism as food allergies; a year of french fries and salads made of tomatoes, cucumbers and mayonnaise; a year of cheap red wine from Georgia; a year of buying vodka from kiosks by the side of the road, by the shot if we were low on money; a year of schlepping heavy bags across town to fill my cupboards; a year of happily paying $25 for a burger at one of the few Western-style restaurants in Moscow -- I was done. Spent. Ready to come home.

The first night I was home, we went out for dinner. I remember the list of beers; there were too many to choose from. It made my head hurt. I asked my friend to choose for me, and he did so, quietly, not understanding. I gave him a tired smile. The next day I was up early, before dawn. As the Virginia morning slowly heated up, I ran. I ran by streams and across railroad tracks, past ranch houses, coffee shops and dry cleaners. The air was thick with the musk of spring flowers, not with exhaust. The streets were smooth, free of potholes. I ran and ran, sweating. I had not been able to run in Russia. I stopped, breathing heavy, leaned over with hands on knees. To say that I was happy is too simple, but that is the best way to explain it.

Later that day I went to the grocery store. First I got in my car and drove, around and around, just listening to the radio, delighted that all the stations were in English, before parking in a sea of cars just like mine. I walked to the entrance, grabbed a cart. There were no plastic bags, wrinkled from being folded again and again, hiding in my purse. I looked around; no one looked back. I blended in, just a young woman shopping for supper. I made it as far as the produce aisle before my heart started hammering in my chest. Too many choices, too much abundance. It wasn't exhilarating, it was unfamiliar, confusing. I felt paralyzed, unsure where to start. "Go to the cereal aisle," I commanded myself. I stood there in front of a tower of boxes, miles high. Raisin bran. Oat raisin crunch. Raisin and walnut flakes. The labels started to swim in front of me. An employee came over. "Can I help you with anything today?" His kindess startled me. I shook my head no. "Well, have a nice day, then." He walked away. I stood there for a minute, reeling from his smile, wanting to bask in it but unable to. Instead I burst into tears and dashed out of the store. I felt helpless, out of place, unequipped to deal with the amount of choice. All the things I'd missed were foreign to me now. I wanted potatoes and carrots and tomatoes, white bread and french fries and mayonnaise salads. I wanted Polar Bear beer and Stolichnaya vodka. 

It took a long time to get back to normal. All the friends who'd come back when I did reported the same feeling of limbo, of not belonging either where we'd been or where we were. When I finished my degree, I turned my back on all things Russian. I vowed never to go back. I stopped speaking it. I ditched all my Russian pen pals. I cut my ties, and I never regretted it. A few times Mr. Food Musings has suggested he'd like to visit Russia. At first I just shook my head, no. Now I don't say much. Maybe one day.

An excerpt from tomorrow's post...

Several weeks ago I found myself in a Russian restaurant in San Francisco. I was there on assignment, interviewing the owner, but had stopped in for dinner first with Mr. Food Musings. How strange it was to be there. And how very unexpected to be excited about it. The slippery sounds of Russian consonants reverberated from the other tables, and as I silently mouthed the familiar words on the menu, I felt a slow smile steal over my face. The fascination I'd once had with Russia was back.  

Comments

[Nerissa]

Wow... this post is a small masterpiece. I was completely swept in to the point of almost feeling myself in your shoes.

[lisaSD]

Wow. Just wow.

Can't wait to read tomorrow's!

[little sister]

What a post! believe me-if you go back to Moscow, you'll be amazed at how some things have changed-sbarro (yes, the pizza chain)is rampant, they have sushi restaurants and so much more, but you can still search out those outdoor markets in the freezing snow, selling everything from raw chicken to underwear.

[Catherine]

Nerissa & LisaSD -- thank you. It was quite a year, and I'm only just now starting to write about it. Surprising what comes out sometimes!

Little sis -- yeah, it seems like it would be a different land entirely, eh?

[Amy Kennedy]

Great post! My husband spent almost 3 years in the Ukraine in the Peace Corps during the 90's, and has several ex-pat friends still in Moscow, so I know he can relate to a lot of this! I love your blog as a whole, btw.

[Catherine]

Amy -- one of my friends moved to Ukraine after I left Moscow. It sounded like a similarly crazy place! Thanks for coming by the blog, it's always nice to hear from people who take a minute to read my ramblings!

[Mom]

Yes, that was quite a year! When Little Sis & I came for a visit, you squired us around to all the great sightseeing spots & beyond---true culture shock in every way. I remember a fabulous meal at Mama Zoya's...& also how we were drawn to the American Diner(3 meals, I think).To quote Dorothy," There's no place like home!"

[Robyn]

Oh Catherine, I've sooo been there, with China. Reading this evocative post nearly brought tears to my eyes. It's simply wonderful.

[Catherine]

Mom -- Mama Zoya's. That was a good thing!

Robyn -- I am betting most expats living in a 3rd world country have been where we've been. Thanks for your nice words.

[grerp]

V. interesting blog entry. I also lived in Russia for a year in the early nineties, although I was in Kaliningrad, not Moscow. Much of my experience was the same. Even now when I smell exhaust on cold air, I'm right back there - and it's been eleven years. I was a Russian studies major in college, but, like you, I ditched it when I got back stateside. I couldn't bear to go back. Oh, I was SO lonely there. So, so lonely. It was so hard to communicate with anyone back home. I didn't have a phone, I had only sporadic internet access. (I hooked up with someone who would let me use his computer once a week for about 15-20 minutes. I had to write my messages separately using a local computer classe's computers; the students there were amazed I could touch type.) About half of my mail reached me. There were other Americans there, but since none of us had phones, connecting was often a study in frustration. The winter was so long and cold and dark and gray. And lonely. I comforted myself reading English books - mostly the airport thrillers people bought on the way in, the kind of thing I wouldn't have touched stateside, but anything in English was heaven.
Getting ANYTHING done in a reasonable amount of time with a minimal amount of frustration was impossible. I used to go out with a series of tasks thinking it was possible that I might accomplish one of them - what with OBYED and stores closing randomly or buses not working or all kinds of unpredictable things happening. You have to completely shift mindsets. I remember an American friend of mine's boyfriend was visiting. We were talking about his travel plans for going back home, and he was just planning on leaving as if you could count on all the transportation running smoothly. And we were like, did you already get your bus tickets? Because they might not run to Poland that day - all of the buses could be broken down or it could be Veterans of the Crimean War Day and all the bus drivers observe it, or something. And if you miss your flight - ? Well, you'd better leave at LEAST one day early just to be sure. And he looked at us like we were CRAZY. And we could believe he had no plan B, no plan C, no plan D.

I could go on forever. I dropped about 15 pounds there walking and carrying so much and eating so little. When I came back, my mother thought I was dying I was so much thinner. Thanks for sharing your memories. It brought me back.

Oh, BTW, I did go back to Russia. Last year, in fact. My husband and I brought home a 9 month old baby boy who is now almost 2. I think now there was a reason I went to Russia and learned so much about the language and culture. I just had to wait about 10 years to see it.

[Catherine]

Grerp -- thank you for the long note. It brought back so many memories I'd forgotten! We had a phone, thankfully, but one computer to share among several. Our internet service was TERRIBLE, and at the time none of us knew how to use Word to write something, save it, then log on and send it via email. So we'd spend hours trying to find a number to connect that wasn't busy, type as fast as our little fingers could, and inevitably, once a week, we'd get booted off long before we could hit send and would have to begin our masterpieces anew. (sigh) But thank God for it anyway -- it saved us. I was able to stay in touch with friends and family. The phone cost $2 per minute so that was out of the question for long talks.

[lil bro]

Hey Sis,
I can relate quite a bit to your feelings on this. Although I am in more modern places and the internet is raging everywhere, the convience of home and the common basic understandings you have with people are null and void once abroad.
Your writing really captures the emotion of being alone overseas. the friends you bond with, the change in everything you know and the want for what you cannot have. With my other friends that are now expats, I think everyone that has ever lived overseas will relate to this post.

[Catherine]

Hey Lil Bro -- what a good point. I imagine the experiences of many expats is much the same; it's only the particular details that change.