Pip: ExpatAlien opens a Russia chapter, and it starts exactly where you'd expect a Moscow story to start — with a coffin, a bribed Marine, and a held breath all the way to landing.
Mara: This episode covers the first installment of a memoir-style piece about arriving in Moscow in the 1990s — the uncle who made it possible, the city that made it difficult, and what it cost to get there.
Pip: Let's start with Moscow itself — and the year everything was supposedly wide open.
Moscow in the 1990s: History, Heat, and a Harrowing Arrival
Mara: The post opens not at the beginning but at the end of something — a death, a diplomatic scramble, a package that needed to disappear. The question underneath all of it is: how did a thirty-two-year-old from Washington, DC end up in Moscow in the first place?
Pip: The uncle, Gerome, is the key. Career State Department, fluent in Russian, second posting to Moscow — and his go-to summary of the place was, "things have changed but things have not changed."
Mara: That line does a lot of work. It's 1993, the Soviet Union has collapsed two years earlier, and the post describes Russia as "wide open — history in the making, anything was possible." Gerome had seen the before. He knew what the after was worth.
Pip: And yet his final assignment wasn't Paris or Fiji. Moscow in the nineties — which, fair enough, is exactly the kind of posting that sounds glamorous until you're in an un-airconditioned airport watching your clothes stick to you.
Mara: That arrival scene lands hard. The post describes slogging "past surly looking customs officials through the double doors" into the heat, then a ride to a Soviet-era compound — prefab concrete blocks, a security gate, small windows with no screens.
Pip: The accommodation verdict: "It wasn't horrible. It was adequate." High praise.
Mara: Gerome's apartment was two bedrooms, fairly functional. Two weeks after arrival, she watched it briefly snow in the kitchen window. The post calls that a welcome to Russia moment, and it earns it.
Mara: What gives the whole setup its weight is the framing at the top — the coffin, the bribed Marine, the breath held from embassy to airport to landing. That's where Moscow – a blip in time, part 1 begins, and it promises the rest of the story will be worth the discomfort of telling it.
Pip: The post itself says as much: "I find it hard to write about my time in Russia. I try to block it out most of the time. But I need to tell you my story. I think it is important." That's a real opening.
Pip: A diplomat's final posting, a niece who talked her way into a visa, and a city that greeted her with heat and concrete. Part two has a lot to live up to.
Mara: The Soviet Union fell, but the surly customs officials remained. We'll be back when part two arrives.
It had been a difficult two weeks. My uncle, Gerome, was going home in a coffin. It was days away from his 61stbirthday. I was in shock. I had no idea what to do. Luckily the US Embassy in Moscow knew exactly what to do. They made all the arrangements and because he was a diplomat, many corners were cut. I knew I had to get a small packet out and figured the best way to do that was to have it on his person. It was harrowing to sneak it into the coffin, but I was able to bribe a Marine (who knew you could do that!) and accomplished the mission. It didn’t help my nerves, though. I pretty much held my breath from embassy to airport to airplane to landing. I had been on a steep learning curve ever since arriving in Moscow one year earlier.
I find it hard to write about my time in Russia. I try to block it out most of the time. I don’t want to remember. I start to write and my mind drifts. A slide show of all the people and moments of being very uncomfortable. Moments of anxiety. But I need to tell you my story. I think it is important.
My uncle, Gerome, was a career State Department Employee on his final assignment in Moscow, Russia. Not sure why that was his final gig. It seemed to me if you had been doing it for as long as he had, they would have rewarded him with a spot in Paris or Fiji. But Moscow it was. Maybe because it was the 1990’s and Moscow was the place to be. The Soviet Union had fallen apart at the end of 1991 and Russia was wide open. History in the making. Anything was possible.
Gerome was my father’s oldest brother. Even though they were ten years apart, they were still close. Growing up on a farm in Iowa, they were comfortable with having guns around and shooting. As a teen Gerome shot rabbits and sold their pelts for a penny or two. His mother often sent him out to kill a chicken for dinner. I never saw him eat chicken. He started driving and delivering fresh milk at fourteen. He didn’t drink milk either. He always dreamed of traveling. Getting away. He was quiet and introspective. A loner. Hard to pin down. Easy to get along with. Levelheaded. But friendly none the less. And smart. Tall and thin, dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Nice looking. Never married. Not gay. More of a ladies’ man. He had causal relationships. Although he was a career diplomat, he was not a manager or a director. His career seemed to stall along the way. He didn’t really rise through the ranks, he just kind of floated along at the same level. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to be happy with what he was doing. Whatever that was. It was always kind of vague. He had lived all over the world.
This was his second assignment to Russia/Soviet Union. He was fluent in Russian. Posted to Moscow in the 70’s, he never talked about those days other than to say, “things have changed but things have not changed”. It was his favorite phrase.
I was wasting away at a dead-end government job working for the National Furniture Center in Washington, DC. We were shipping desks to military personnel in Iraq. I needed a change. I talked Gerome into getting me a visa for three months so I could go soak up a new culture, a new world. I was dreaming of launching my new writing career. I figured if nothing else, it would give me something to write about. I don’t think he was thrilled at the prospect of having a thirty-two-year-old taking up space around him. A girl who didn’t speak a word of Russian. He must of have been nuts to agree to it. But he did.
I had visited him when he was living in Africa and then I had done some traveling on my own so I wasn’t completely green. I had some international experience and spoke Spanish and French. I just needed to catch up on my Russian language and history. How hard could it be? I was very naïve and presumptuous. Had I known what was in store for me, I might have thought twice about the whole thing.
The plan was to arrive in time for Gerome’s 60th birthday. I would help him celebrate and hopefully give him something to think about other than his aging self. Of course, I didn’t know him very well. Turns out he had plenty to think about.
I arrived in mid-June 1993. It was hot. I don’t really sweat much, but I was evolving. My clothes were sticking to me. All my bulges were showing through my cotton shirt. My pants were wet. My hair was sticking out. Wet. Ugh. How does it get so hot? This wasn’t Africa. This wasn’t the jungle. This was an un-airconditioned airport in Europe. Well, kind of in Europe. And it was awful.
I slogged past surly looking customs officials through the double doors where I was greeted by Gerome, and his car and driver. After a harrowing ride with all windows wide open we arrived at the security gate in front of Gerome’s apartment building. The Soviets provided compounds for foreigners. There was a gate with a security official who checked everybody into the parking lot. These were mostly for diplomats, but they included journalists as well. The apartment buildings were built in blocks. Each block had several entrances. Big, tall concrete prefab monstrosities. Ugly.
Gerome had been assigned a two-bedroom apartment that was fairly nice. It wasn’t horrible. It was adequate. At least I had my own room. It was small, though. And hot. The windows that actually opened were small and had no screens. The heat just lingered. No movement. My only consolation was that we were on the 55th parallel north in latitude and more or less even with Vancouver, Canada so I imagined it couldn’t possibly stay this hot for long. In fact, I sat in the kitchen two weeks later and watched it briefly snow. Welcome to Russia.
This is a work of fiction based on my time in Russia in the 1990’s. Check out my memoir, Echoes of a Global Life.
Adia was born in Kenya of a white American archeologist mother and a white Kenyan absent father. She spent her early childhood in a Masai village raised by a barren African Masai woman. From there she went to school in Nairobi where her mother was going through the motions of educating her child but not really paying much attention to her. Adia was that girl who stayed in one place and all her classmates came and went. She was odd. After her grandmother appeared on the scene, Adia ended up in boarding school in her passport country. Her grandparents always wanted her to “come home” but their home was never hers. Boarding school had its own challenges of fitting in with a culture she knew nothing about.
Grace was also born in Kenya, but her parents moved around. Her father worked for the State Department. Her mother had been an aid worker in Kenya but had a traumatic experience and found consolation from an Embassy man. Her future husband. Grace and her parents bounced from the USA to several other African countries before returning to Nairobi where she met Adia. Grace was fed up with moving around and Adia was like nobody she had met before. Grace was tired of the in-between life of the expats. She loved that Adia was so comfortable in her environment.
I love the way this book weaves in the different aspects of Third Culture Kids. It touches on having strong ties to one culture when the parents and grandparents are not part of that culture. The pull of family. The possibility of a different kind of family. Immersing in culture. And living on the edges of culture. It also goes into how people adapt to pain and grief and, of course, change.
I really appreciated and enjoyed this book. I could really relate to it.
Atypisches Museum Berlin. Erected in 1851 opposite Charlottenburg Palace to house King Friedrich Wilhelm IV’s Imperial Guard, this building and its mirror image twin across the avenue have served the Staatlichen Museen PreuBishcher Kulturbesitz as museums since 1967 and 1960 respectively.
Designed by Friedrich August Stuhler, the buildings with small round temples sat on their flat roofs are important examples of 19th century city architecture despite extensive damage suffered during the last war. In our case, a Marshall built to enable the horses of the Imperial Guard adjoins the main building. The long hall with vaulted ceiling is divided into three halves by iron columns that were cast in a Berlin foundry around 1858.
It’s only 47 degrees F at the moment but I am hopeful. Warmth is on its way.
My TCK/Expat Films and Books page lists Memoirs by TCK and Expats, Films by and about TCKs, Resources for TCKs, and Fiction by or about TCKs. I recently updated and re-organized it.
I started reading TCK/Expat memoirs about 15 years. ago. As I read them, I put them on my website. Some I reviewed, some I didn’t. A lot of it was research for my book but also it was interesting. I learned a lot about Third Culture Kids (people who grew up outside their passport country because of their parent’s work). I recently came across a Ted Talk presented by a woman who is trying her best to educate people about TCK’s. It was such an important moment when she discovered her “tribe”, she wants spread the word. She founded TCK.Global where you can read TCK stories or share your own.
Other books I have read recently are The Rarest Fruit by Gaelle Belem and The Correspondent by Virginia Evans.
The Rarest Fruit is about a young slave boy who lives on the island of La Reunion near Madagascar. At twelve years old this boy figures out how to manually cross pollinate the orchid that produces the vanilla bean. This changed the whole industry and the economy of the island and in turn many other places as well. The story is kind of bitter sweet. It is a true story and reflects the times. I learned a lot.
The Correspondent is about an older woman who has written letters her whole life. She writes to authors she likes, to her children, to her friends, her ex-husband, her lover, her neighbor. We learn about her long life and her daily life through her letters. It is an easy read and very enjoyable.
I also read Murder on Lake Garda. A murder mystery that was kind of wordy and not really my favorite. I’m currently reading a Bridgerton novel by Julia Quinn. I’m trying to write a spy/romance novel so need to start researching. Not that Bridgerton has anything to do with spies, but she does a good job with the romance. Next up are Gabriel’s Moon by William Boyd, Magical Disinformation by Lachlan Page, and Black Ice by Anne Stuart. Wish me luck.
