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.