The last few days in Siberia were like Sunday on Labor Day weekend anticipating the end of summer and the return to school. We’d become surrogate Russians and we were missing these people in a heavy way. Unlike missing our parents, who we’d needed a break from; and likewise them us, the Russians, we were most likely never going to see again. I’d started to close down and put on a happy face, but inside, I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to fall in love and live happily ever after in Russia.
I started handing out the remaining gifts I’d brought. Food - Ramen Noodles, Kraft Mac-n-chees, cigarettes, clothes, cassette tapes, and money. I gave it all away, they needed it I didn’t. I made goodbyes with Ira’s secret friends; losing a couple of huge hands of poker so they didn’t have to take handouts. There were a few final large blowout parties with the exchange program so that we could celebrate and say our goodbyes. I took several walks around the neighborhood memorializing the school, the park, and the towering oak tree outside Ira’s apartment (in which Ira’s father scraped bark from the tree to help cure me of a really bad case of diarrhea - a story I’ve neglected to divulge in detail - you can thank me later). Aleosha was sad when I was packing, he kept me company even though my Russian and his English were so poor, but we giggled together nonetheless. I will never forget his curious big eyes. Ira’s mother and father sent me with gifts, tea, and helped me pack the samovar for my Dad back home. But when it came time for Ira - it was hard for me to say goodbye. I learned so much about being American from the Russians, but from Ira, I learned diligence, perseverance, stubborness and balancing hard work with a sense of humor.
We met at the bus stop where it all started more than a month before. It was very early in the morning, still dark when we hugged our last hugs and loaded up into the bus. The trip to Novosibirsk was silent except for the occasional sound of muted whimpering. We flew back to Moscow for a short stay before our final flight back to the Twin Cities. We visited the Bolshoi with black market tickets. We watched as our teacher negotiated the price with two shady looking mobster type fellas. The Bolshoi was beautiful and at the same time our gas tanks were empty and we all knew it. It was hard to stay enthusiastic and enrolled, most of us were still back in the middle of Asia wondering what our families were doing.
The following day we visited Arbat Street to make final purchases of gifts before our return trip. The street that never sleeps was very different on the return trip, our novel eyes were seasoned with Russian culture, the wondrous artifacts en route had become touristy and Americanized fodder. I was able to walk along Arbat Street and experience how much we had changed in the four weeks - what we’d become.
The flight back was much shorter than on our way, isn’t it always? We’d all grown up a little and a little less innocent. I was 17 when I stepped from the airplane into the care of a surrogate family. I was still 17 when I embraced my family back home, but the 17 I was before we left would never be the same as the eyes that walked down the terminal on return. The threshold had been crossed, the journey was over; But, with any change, it is really about the new beginnings.
I had a difficult time acclimating to culture in the states. My life back home in America, I continued to compare it to my short stay in Siberia. It brought tears of joy and remembrance but also grief. It took an American boy from Saint Paul to travel to Siberia and return to realize what it means to be American. Maybe leaving is what it takes to appreciate what we have? Must it? I am so grateful to my school, my family and the Russians to give me the opportunity, the possibility to learn a little more of myself.
I was truly changed, and not just the 25 pounds I’d lost on the trip, the world had become smaller but in many ways it grew too. It’s hard to describe the incongruity of feelings, I was aware of a vastness of space and culture and this made me feel so tiny, but I also felt part of something greater. As I write this I realize in the past two weeks I’ve shared many stories about my trip to Russia, I’ve left out many details but the truth is I haven’t shared these, nor spoken about them in 23 years, and in truth I’d kept a lot of this inside.
I graduated high school and went on to college at the University of Minnesota. I took a few Russian classes but never pursued the language. To this day, I still have Russian dreams in which I am back in Siberia and in the dreams I am speaking fluent Russian and understanding everyone at the same time.
A few years after I moved to Seattle I received a call from one of the other American Student’s on the exchange. She called to tell me the unfortunate news that Ira had been killed in an automobile accident. I was devastated to hear the news. I hadn’t heard from Ira or her family since a little after we returned from the trip.
Ira was a sister and a good friend. She will always be in my heart and I am grateful for knowing her even for the brief time that we shared together. She taught me so much about myself and encouraged me to grow into the man and father I’ve become. She taught me so much about friendship and how to be Russian but also what it means to be human.
I miss you Ira.
Love Pete.
No comments:
Post a Comment