moscow

Moscow – a blip in time, part 1

It had been a difficult two weeks. My uncle, Gerome, was going home in a coffin. It was days away from his 61^stbirthday. 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 60^th 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 55^th 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.

Shopping in Moscow

I lived in Moscow, Russia for nine years in the 1990’s. It was a brief moment in Russian history that will probably never come again.

In February 1994, on a Saturday, I went to the grocery store to do the weekly shopping with my backpack and a cloth bag. In Moscow you always had to have your own bag. I took the metro as usual. I walked about half a mile from my apartment to the nearest metro station and rode it for five stops. February in Moscow is cold and often snowy and usually messy. The metro floors are wet with everybody’s boots tracking in dirt and snow and ice. My metro station was one of my favorites, Novoslobodskaya. It has thirty-two stained glass panels designed by a Latvian artist. When it was empty, I enjoyed sitting down and taking them all in.

Once at the store, I found pretty much everything I was looking for which didn’t happen that often. The store wasn’t too crowded, so everything was looking pretty good. I was thinking how great it was that so much stuff had fit into the backpack, and I only had to carry a couple of light things in my hands. As I approached the entrance to the metro, I felt the pack shifting as if something was not quite right. At the station I pushed my way through a huge crowd to get past the turnstiles and decided I should take the pack off and check it before I got onto the escalator. As I was taking it off it opened wide and everything fell out onto the muddy wet floor of the station. I dropped everything and chased a can as it rolled away from me and managed to gather everything into a pile. I hurriedly crammed my sugar, flour, juice and tomato sauce back into the backpack. The cheese and sour cream had been in a separate plastic bag, so I just shoved that into my cloth bag and proceeded to the escalator. Through all this, people were stepping over me and around me and somebody actually stepped on my sour cream, so it was smeared all over the inside of the plastic bag. Nobody had missed a step to even think about offering me any help. My bags were filthy from lying in the muck on the floor and my hands were also filthy from gathering everything up off the muck on the floor. I was cursing the metro, the Russian people, the Russian Federation, my husband and anybody else I could think of and I plotted all the way home that I would just pack my bags and get the next flight out of this god forsaken place.

When I got to my apartment building and entered the elevator that rarely worked properly, a woman followed me in with her dog who she had just been walking. After establishing which floors we were going to she commented on the fact the elevator was in such poor working order. I agreed wholeheartedly. She went on to say that I should really wear a hat because I might catch the flu in this cold weather. I said it really wasn’t that cold. As she got off, she smiled and wished me well. Continuing up the elevator all I could think of was what a country filled with contradictions.

I managed to salvage everything but the sour cream by transferring things into non-muddy containers. I set the backpack and cloth bag aside to be dealt with later and cleaned the apartment from top to bottom and washed all the floors. I felt much better when I was done.

Fun Friday

Not really fun but possibly. Looking at the world through a screen door. That could be fun. Looking at the world full of snow through a screen door. Getting more fun. Funner. Wonderlandy. It is pretty driving around town seeing the trees covered with white.

A light snow fell for most of this week. Reminded me of Moscow where it snowed constantly all winter. A weird thing was that the snow in Moscow never seemed to accumulate. It took me the longest time to figure it out. Big trucks came out at night that looked like giant crabs. They had two arms in the front that scooped all the snow into a feeder and onto a conveyor belt that took it up and dumped it into another truck behind. These trucks took the snow outside the city and dumped it into the countryside so there was never snow on the streets or sidewalks. What you ended up with was mainly ice. Black ice. I fell down a lot.

These are the trucks that push the snow into big piles so the ‘crab’ trucks can gobble it up.

So I signed up for Social Security. I guess I am ignorant but I discovered something. Once you hit your full retirement age, you can collect Social Security and work as much as you like. I always thought there was a limit to what you could earn until you were 70. But not the case. Not that I want to work but good to know.

The orange one is back. At least the press isn’t falling all over him like they used to. I hope it stays that way. I was reading today that Biden has a whole team at the White House working on ‘managing’ all the attacks that are sure to come. Sad.

Have a great weekend! Don’t think too much…

The Trials of Air Travel

I have been reading lately about all the airline travel problems people are having. Long delays, cancellations, missed events, long lines. It looks pretty bad, but then I read an article today that compared what was happening now to pre-pandemic numbers and they aren’t far off. There have always been travel uncertainties. I was looking through some old writing of mine and found this from 1997. I was living in Moscow, Russia at the time. My two year old child and I were on home leave in Minnesota and we were flying back to Moscow via Amsterdam. Noah is my son, Nicholas my husband who was in Moscow.

“So we got on the plane and at first they said they had to offload some luggage and it would be about 15 minutes. Then they said they couldn’t start one of the engines automatically so they would have to try it manually. Then it didn’t work manually so they would have to fix that. They never knew for sure what the problem was or how long it would take. Noah fell asleep about an hour into it and slept until we got into the air. After they they fixed the engine, the computer program had to be re-entered with the new times so that took a bit longer and then finally we were off, three hours late.

Noah finally fell asleep about an hour before we landed in Amsterdam. I guess I have blocked it out because I don’t remember most of it or how I entertained him but we survived somehow and when we got off, a woman across the aisle said that my child was such a good traveler!! I didn’t know how to respond to that.

Our connecting flight was just leaving when we arrived in Amsterdam so I went to the transit desk and they told me they would have to put me on the next flight out which was the Aeroflot at 12:45 pm. I said I didn’t want to fly Aeroflot and she said she understood completely and I should go talk to the people at the ticket counter. So I went there and they told me that all the flights to Moscow that day eventually connected to Aeroflot so if I wanted to go that day, I didn’t have a choice. They told me I could refuse to go and I assume they would have put me up for the night but then I didn’t know what would happen to my luggage so I decided to just go. the 12:45 flight was fully booked in Tourist Class so they put us in Business Class and as the KLM guy was giving me my ticket he said – Well, at least it is Business Class, whatever that means…. I said I would find out. They also gave me a free three minute phone call to Moscow so I let Nicholas know when to meet us.

There was a couple with two small children also waiting for the flight to Moscow and I found out they had been on my flight out of Minneapolis. It turns out that they were just moving to Moscow and it was their first time. I thought, what an introduction for her… She won’t forget this trip for a while. I gave her my phone number and she promised to call me. The world is small.

Well, Business Class on Aeroflot is a real treat. The only difference between it and Tourist Class is that there is leg room and you get to use the First Class toilet. Tourist Class has six seats across with no leg room, Business Class has six seats across with leg room, and First Class has four seats across with leg room. All the seats are the same size. Noah slept the whole way and I slept through most of it so can’t comment on the service except the beverage choices were Sprite, Coke or mineral water. The landing reminded me of the UTA pilots in Africa. We would dive, then go up, then drop, then dive again. Noah thought it was great fun.

After we landed and arrived at the gate the announcement was made that in fairness to everybody the Tourist Class passengers would exit first and the Business Class and First Class people would remain in their seats until everybody else had exited. We sat there and watched as all the people in Tourist Class filed past us. Unbelievable.

Luckily my bags showed up right away and Nicholas was there waiting.”

I have survived many such sagas. Some worse than others. But it hasn’t stopped me so far…

Babies Abroad

While living in Moscow during the 90’s I got pregnant and went to the US to have my baby. I retuned when he was seven weeks old.

On arrival at the airport after traveling for 15 hours, we were ushered to the head of the line at passport control and breezed through customs. My husband showed up about 10 minutes later saying he had a flat tire. So we took a taxi to the tire repair shop and waited for it to be fixed before finally getting home.

The apartment was a horrible mess. Boxes everywhere. Our previous landlords had kicked us out of our last apartment mainly because our one year lease was up but also because we had moved some of the books they left in the living room. They didn’t want us to touch any of their stuff. Go figure. So on to apartment number 4.

The new apartment had no furniture except for a couple of chairs in the living room and a crib for the baby so we had to sleep on the floor. Luckily there were armoires so we could at least unpack stuff. I spent the first three days doing nothing but unpacking and taking care of my child. It finally got to a point where I could tolerate it. Unfortunately the washer started acting up so there was laundry up the wazoo.

I breast fed my baby for six months and then I had to go back to work so I switched to formula. I found one that didn’t make him sick and managed to get a regular supply at the children’s department store, Detsky Mir. After a few months they ran out. I went to every store I could think of looking for formula. Sometimes I could find it at a kiosk on the street. I was then forced to switch to a different brand and hoped he could tolerate it. Luckily he did but that brand disappeared as well. We did make it through until he went off the formula but there were times when I thought I would have to beg somebody to ship me some.

I’m sure some of you thinking – formula? Ugh. She could have made her own or pumped. Ugh. I had plenty of other problems to deal with so it just wasn’t an option. I never considered it. But he survived and grew into a healthy child.

A large healthy child. I used cloth diapers until he grew out of them and then I switched to paper. He got so big I had trouble finding diapers to fit him. I went through the same drill as with the formula, hitting every store I could think of. I finally connected with a woman who knew of a place where I could get extra large diapers.

She gave me an address in a Soviet apartment block. The entrance was around the back and downstairs into the basement. A very large man in a leather coat guarded the door. I felt like a criminal. Inside was a large room with a man sitting at a small desk in the entranceway. Boxes of diapers were piled high in the back. He had what I was looking for and I bought a large box to keep me going for a while. Sometimes he would be out and I would either have to go back on the prowl or buy a smaller size. Potty training didn’t come soon enough.

By the time we left Moscow, six years later I could have purchased any formula and any diaper I wanted easily. My timing was off.

By the time I left, they had Ikea. Civilization had arrived.

Books from Asia, Moscow and Turkey

BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS

I’m always interested in expat stories, expat memoirs, and third culture kid stories. I usually pick them up, get a few chapters in and set them aside. I don’t know what it is about them but they just don’t grab me. Maybe it’s the writing, maybe it’s the focus. Although I usually finish them at some point even if I just scan through them. Here are a few I read recently and liked.

The Sullivan Saga, Memoires of an Overseas Childhood by M.H. Sullivan, was an interesting story about a girl growing up in a Foreign Service family in Asia and Africa. In the TCK stories I can usually find some personal connection that keeps me going. The thing that grabbed me about this book was she started out talking about returning to the US for college and wondering if she was “American” enough. Her family was very different from mine but there were some similarities in the experiences she had. I could totally identify with the story about her father having to go into the bushes and take his pants off because he was being attached by army ants in Africa.

Lenin Lives Next Door, Marriage, Martinis, and Mayhem in Moscow by Jennifer Eremeeva is about a woman married to a Russian and her experiences living in Moscow for twenty years. She fell in love with Russia at 13 when she read “Nicholas and Alexandra” by Robert Massie. She studied Russian history and language and eventually ended up in Moscow running tours and hosting trade show delegations. A fellow tour guide introduced her to her future husband and she has been there ever since. Her book is all about the characters she meets along the way and the challenges of living in Moscow. It is very funny and some things are hard to believe since truth really is stranger than fiction. I could identify with a lot of what she talks about having lived in Moscow for nine years myself. And funnily enough I actually knew Jennifer when I lived there. I recommend it – it’s fun and fast paced.

Yesterday I picked up Perking the Pansies by Jack Scott. Yes, you can read it in a day. It is fast paced and light reading. Two married gay men from Britain decide to chuck everything, quit their jobs, sell their property and all their belongings and move to Turkey. Most people thought they were nuts. It is something many people dream of doing but would never actually do. They did it. The book covers their first year in Turkey. They were not completely prepared for what they were getting into and it seems they should have done some more research on the weather but they manage to keep a positive attitude and stick with it. After making some adjustments, and meeting some unpleasant expats, they eventually find their way and their own group of friends. It is a fun read.

My Expat Friend

I met Linda Montgomery through the American Women’s Organization in Moscow, Russia. I was editor of the newsletter and I could always count on her for an article or two. We became friends and kept in touch. She sends out an email from time to time about what she is doing. I received my previous post on Helen Thomas from her and re-posted it. Linda also sent me some information about herself and I am including it here. Please be sure to read both of them!

Linda and husband Dave in Moscow

I’m a native Texan, born in 1947…one of the original Baby Boomers, which meant that my demographic was the one that swelled school populations so much that old Army barracks were used as additional classrooms until new schools were built. Now we’re being blamed for bankrupting Social Security…I guess not enough of us died before retirement age.

My father was a journalist who worked for UPI the majority of his career, then was editor of the Editorial page at the Fort Worth Star Telegram the last couple of years before retirement. As you know, I married a journalist, and from my ode to Helen, you know I never had any other aspirations in life. The truth is I never wanted to marry. I was serious about getting to Washington, and I did, eventually, but with a husband and two kids in tow, and it was his career, not mine that got us there.

After college, I worked for the Dallas Times Herald and covered everything from obits the first few weeks, to the murder/suicide of a prominent Dallas architect and socialite. It was undoubtedly the happiest year of my life. I was young, single, doing what I had always wanted to do and was good at it. The Herald was an afternoon paper with early deadlines, so after we finished working on the next day’s copy, a group of grumbly old veteran reporters and I would retire to the bar across the street to tell tales of scandals and news stories from long ago. I listened, in rapture, until Dave took me away to become a married woman. There was a nepotism rule at the paper, meaning no married couples could work there at the same time, so one of us had to go. My City Editor tried to talk me into living with Dave, rather than marrying him, but in the late 1960’s, that just wasn’t done, at least not in the South.

After our wedding, I worked as PR Director for a Dallas College and hated it. I wrote press releases every day so I could go to the paper and hang out. I quit after a year and took a position with a Dallas advertising agency in their Public Relations department. That wasn’t good, either. Finally I left daily work and freelanced for several magazines. I was also the Dallas stringer for Hill & Knowlton, the largest PR firm in New York, and did outside assignments for various agencies, including one on Hurricane Carla for the Insurance Board. That was fun…you know how journalists love to cover disasters!

We moved to Washington D.C. In January, 1981, just as Reagan was taking office. Dave had to go right to work, but the kids and I had a bird’s eye view of the biggest show in town. Every limousine on the East Coast had been rented and sent to Washington for the inaugural, and it was wild watching the traffic jams with VIP’s trying to out-prestige one another.

I didn’t do much work for pay the next decade, but began writing friends and family in what would much later be called a “blog” before there was such a thing. I was especially prolific after we moved to Moscow in 1998, and I could no longer use the telephone to communicate. Life was so strange and different there. It gave me enough copy to last a lifetime. I wrote virtually every day and as my friends and family passed my letters around, my “audience” grew. From an initial contact list of ten or so, I had more than 50 people getting my daily updates from Russia by the time we left almost four years later.

The only paid freelance job I had in Moscow was an article for the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. I forget what the pay was, but whatever it was, I know it disappeared at Ismailovo the next weekend. However, I did continue to publish stories in newsletters for both the American Women’s Organization and the International Women’s Club.

When we returned to Washington D.C. In 2002, I felt a sense of loss that was completely unfamiliar. I had never lived overseas before, and probably would not get a chance to do so again, but the experience in Russia had been life altering. I couldn’t get Russia out of my head. The decompression took a lot longer than I imagined. It was nice to drive a car again, great to have my independence back, wonderful to be able to speak to and understand everyone again, but there were so many other things I missed. I was having such a difficult time adjusting that a friend suggested that I write a book about my time in Russia. Before long, I had four chapters written just from memories of our arrival in 1998.

The project was shelved when life intruded once again. The very fact that we had to live somewhere, eat something, wear clean clothes, drive and refuel cars, contact relatives, visit sick friends and correspond with bill and tax collectors, bank depositors and middle management of every bureaucracy known to man, took more time and attention than it should have.

By 2008 I had lost both my parents and Dave was getting tired of his 56 mile round trip commute downtown from the house we found in Centreville. Inflation had moved in since we left Washington and we couldn’t even afford to buy our old house again. An opportunity came up to take back his old position in Austin as Bureau Chief for the newspaper. It was a different paper from the one he had worked for before, but the job was the same. We jumped at the chance to get back to Austin and out of Washington’s obsessive Type A behavior and moved in before Christmas.

While recuperating from back surgery, I needed something different to do than reading and watching the infernal television, so I joined Ancestry.com online and researched my genealogy. I found a patriot who supplied guns from his foundry in Fredericksburg, Virginia, to the Revolutionary War soldiers, making me eligible to join that venerable institution, the Daughters of the American Revolution. Had you told me in my youth I’d be joining that group someday, I would have argued with you to the grave. But I love history, believe in historic preservation, and knew of no international groups to join in the middle of Central Texas.

Within a year as a member of one of the state’s founding chapter’s (1899), I had started their first newsletter. I never know when to stop. I’m now knee-deep in writing about DAR projects, historical preservation, the wonderful old home we meet in, and some of the 300 members of my chapter. I started something they all love and, of course, want more of, so I dug my own hole and am stuck in it.

The other volunteer work I got into in Austin came about with our two rescued dogs. Both are Scotties, which we have had before, and I decided to get into Scottie Rescue rather than buy puppies from breeders from now on. I like the people involved and started doing home visits for Scottie adoptions. As our Scottie friend base grew, we met people who published monthly catalogues, magazines and updates on Scottie care. Yes, I’m now writing for them, too.

I hope to get back to the book someday, but am happy with the projects I’m involved in with my writing these days, too. On down days, I still reflect on what might have been, and there have been moments when I wished Dave and I could have switched roles, but no one has the power to change such things, and it’s futile to focus on what didn’t happen. I love the short but brilliant times I had in the newsroom, and am grateful for that. Some people never reach a goal like that, but I did and can be proud that I made it to the top, even if I didn’t stay long.

Dave keeps telling me to tell you about how I worked for the Texas Business Press Magazine, Texas Homes, had a column on historic homes in that magazine, and how I lectured a journalism class on invitation a couple of times. When I quit the job at the college because I couldn’t take the boredom any more, the Editor of the Dallas Times Herald asked if I would be interested in taking a job as Press Secretary for a cantankerous but successful businessman in Dallas in 1972. I was unemployed and agreed.

My boss turned out to be Bill Clements, who later became Governor of Texas, and he was the State Chairman of the Committee to Re-Elect the President…Nixon’s team! While my friends expressed their political horror, I asked if any of them wanted to pay my salary. That stopped the conversation. Clements was a cantankerous old oilman who was bright, outspoken to the point of being rude, and sassy but he was also loyal, a good businessman and truly convinced he could help the state and country he loved so well. We got along famously. Known for his quick judgments, I wondered how it would work but he liked me from the beginning and we had a close, personal relationship that lasted until his death a few short years ago. He never quite trusted Dave, since he was a journalist, but always trusted me and my judgment. I miss him, too.

Food Friday: Peanut Chicken

This is a variation of the West African Ground Nut Stew. I adapted it to serve to people when I lived in Moscow. I could find the ingredients and it was mild enough that everybody liked it but it was also a little different.

Peanut Chicken

2 green peppers

1 medium onion

2 Tbsp oil

1 (6 oz) can tomato paste

2/3 cup peanut butter

3 cups chicken broth

1 tsp salt

2 tsp chili powder (or real chillies)

1/2 tsp nutmeg

4 cups cubed cooked chicken

6 cups cooked rice

Fry onions and green peppers in oil.

Combine tomato paste and peanut butter, stir in broth, salt, chili, and nutmeg.

Add peanut mixture to the green peppers and onions

Stir in cooked chicken and cook over low heat for 10-15 minutes.

Serve over rice.

Food Friday: Mashed Potato Quesadillas

My son went to Moscow last year and ate Mashed Potato Quesadillas in a restaurant one night. He has been on my case ever since to make them for him. I had never heard of such a thing! He said they had veal in them. I’m not a huge veal fan so I have substituted chicken but I think any meat or no meat would work fine.

Mashed Potato Quesadillas

2 cups mashed potatoes

1 lb. boneless chicken, cooked and diced or shredded

1/4 cup red onions

Shredded cheddar cheese

8 flour tortillas

Salsa

Sour Cream

Make the mashed potatoes with butter and milk and a little salt

Cook the chicken in garlic and adobo with the onions

Chop the chicken and mix it in with the potatoes.

In a large skillet, spread the potato mixture onto half a tortilla and top with shredded cheese.

Fold over and cook till the cheese melts and tortilla is lightly browned.

Serve with salsa and sour cream.

It’s always something

snl-10

The first year Saturday Night Live aired on TV in the USA, Gilda Radner was part of the cast. She played several different characters, but my favorite was Rosanne Roseannadanna. This character did a “commentary” on the nightly “news” show. She would go on and on about some stupidity somebody had done and then focus on some very disgusting detail and Jane Curtain would put an end to it all saying it was making her want to throw up. Rosanna would end the skit by saying Well, Jane, it just goes to show you, it’s always something! If it’s not one thing, it’s another!

About 10 years later Gilda was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and died three years later in 1989.

My ex-husband, Nicholas, always had a great sense of humor and loved Saturday Night Live. Rosanna was one of his favorites, too. As well as John Belushi, Samurai Delicatessen.

I met Nicholas when I was living in Minneapolis, MN. He was a left radical who passionately believed in living green before anybody thought about it much. He wanted to be a writer. He grew up speaking Russian at home and had just returned from Nicaragua where he was learning Spanish and following the Sandanistas around taking photos. He was anything but boring. We dated for four years and then married in December of 1988. We went to Cancun for our honeymoon but also visited Chichen Itza, Merida, and Uxmal. About a week after we returned, he left for a month in Russia. His first trip to the motherland. He met most of his relatives for the first time. He always wanted to live and work in Russia and it looked like it might be possible with all the changes coming about.

Nicholas started out his career as a journalist working for the Tampa Tribune and we moved to Clearwater, Florida, in 1989. That only lasted about a year. He was bored to death. He was supposed to be writing about environmental issues but they kept assigning him to local festivals and tourist attractions. Due to a strange set of circumstances we ended up in Washington DC and in 1991 he left for Moscow as a freelance journalist. He witnessed and reported on the coup of August 1991 when the Soviet Union fell. I heard him on NPR the day the tanks rolled into Moscow. He liked to live large, work hard and play hard. He loved to get out there in the thick of it. When Yeltsin was bombing the Parliament House in Moscow in 1993, Nicholas was out there in the crowd spotting snipers and running around the “war zone”.

During the 10 years that Nicholas lived in Moscow, he started an Expat List and and Expat Site. Both were forums and information hubs for expats living in Moscow. It was fun to see it grow over the years and to realize it filled a niche for much needed information. Although it has changed a lot since those days and Nicholas is no longer involved, it does still exist and people continue to use it.

Our son was born during this time and he spent the first six years of his life living in Moscow. After returning to the USA in 2002, Nicholas ran a program for exchange students and professionals from Russia and Ukraine. He enjoyed it but I don’t think he found it especially challenging.

Then somehow it all fell into place and he landed a great job. He developed, coordinated, and edited a news website for a Defense Department contract covering all the news for Central Asia. This website has been instrumental in counter terrorism activities in the area. The website is Central Asia Online.

He and I had our differences but we were married for 16 years and had some very good times traveling around Europe and dealing with the challenges of living in Russia. He tried to be a good father and stayed close to his son.

In April of 2011, Nicholas, had a seizure at work. They found a tumor in his brain and after it was removed they determined it was an aggressive form of brain cancer, stage 4. With the help of chemo he lived a pretty normal life for the next year. He had a very positive outlook throughout his illness and he added the following signature to his emails:

Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in
a well preserved body, but rather, to skid in
sideways, totally worn out, shouting … “Holy
shit…what a ride!”

Then the chemo stopped working.

He and our son had planned a trip back to Russia for the spring of 2013. In August, 2012, the trip was moved up and they went for a two week visit. They saw relatives, friends, and many of their old stomping grounds. It was a dream come true for both of them.

A few weeks after they returned, Nicholas was in the hospital with rolling seizures. They tried several drugs and he was able to recover to a point. They gave him several different treatments to shrink the tumors but they just kept spreading. In December he was told to seek hospice.

Both Nicholas and Gilda had cancers that are difficult if not impossible to test for or discover early on. Because of Gilda’s high profile, there has been progress in ovarian cancer and a lot of money has poured into research in that area. They are even testing a vaccine that could help stop the recurrence after treatment.

Brain tumors and brain cancer have a long way to go, however. More research is needed.

Please help by donating to the cancer research fund. For more information and to donate click HERE.

It’s always something…..if it’s not one thing it’s another.

Nicholas Pilugin, August 17, 1955 – January 17, 2013

: Lake Baikal

: Amsterdam

: Shenandoah Mountains

: Great Falls

: Moscow 2012

Expat Alien

foreign in my own country