Goodbye, Russkiy Sister

The twins and I stood in the walking street, as if a storybook with fictional creatures from an era long gone had opened. These people were unlike anyone we’d ever seen. They were mesmerizingly beautiful. They walked in a confidence that didn’t have to prove itself. It felt like taking a time machine into the 1940s. Our beaten up Converse and Vans couldn’t have more so screamed,

“Hi, I’m an American in the 21st century.”

Everyone was dressed to the nines in sophisticated clothing tailored to their body, high heels, makeup, hair fixed.

It wasn’t even a Friday night.

Many of them pushed baby strollers or had children by their side. A particular scent of perfumed drifted through the air; one that now takes me right back to the walking street, if I catch a whiff anywhere.

We’d just signed the lease and gotten keys to a soviet style apartment - after nearly being scammed (Bye bye, precious Rubles) - that was nestled between a park that resembled the Chernobyl fairgrounds pre-nuclear disaster, and a prominent Lenin statue just a few blocks away.

We were definitely not in America anymore.

There were no traditional street signs, public transport resembled something of a Vangaon post Chernobyl nuclear disaster (featuring old window curtains), so we opted to urban hike 99.9999% of the time.

I’m the most directionally challenged person I’ve ever met, so it was a miracle I made it back to the apartment anytime I went out. My specialty was going in circles. And getting lost. And somehow making it back.

The taxi drivers were questionable, looked angry, played music loud enough to make your actual cochlea vibrate, and knew as much English as we knew Russian. Imagine the lead foot of an L.A. freeway driver going 70 mph, but in a small, post soviet town, coming to terms with your own mortality at every swerve, stop, and holding onto each other for 1) Dear life 2) To remain seated. It was super sketchy and super fun.

One particularly stoic driver, who seemed like he was less than mused by three American girls, expressionlessly rolled up to our place. To our surprise, he typed into Google translate that he wanted to join us inside for chai after a late night, bumpy ride.

We politely opted out.

Actually, we barely slept a wink the first night in our soviet style apartment because the late night, city slickers were still wide awake in their tire screeching taxis at 2AM.

Ah, Russia.

Moscow’s metro stations were literally like an art gallery or museum, cilantro was a rare delicacy (ok, at least to we three Americanas) and almost nowhere to be found, bread and milk were definitely a thing for Russkiy folk, but so was coffee. Russians love some latte art or the french press. Shared coffee consumption will make you friends for life.

It’s funny how you step into a foreign place, feel so out of place, only to realize that no matter your upbringing, way of life, cultural norms, political and religious beliefs, that you really are more alike than different.

I had some preconceived notions and expectations prior to my departure.

But I learned pretty quickly not to take the opinion of those who had only read about Russia and consumed information on its people.

They had read, but they had not experienced.

I was warned about how supposedly cold, unkind, intimidating, and scary these people were.

As it turned out?

Russians were some of the warmest, kindest, most honest and engaging people I’d ever met Life lesson:

People are not the same as their political system.

I stood in line to board a 10 hour flight in New York City.

Was this actually happening? It didn’t feel real. I’d never traveled abroad by myself. I’d flown all over the states solo, but international flights and navigating passport control, customs, and entering unknown territory thousands of miles from home put a knot in my stomach.

International travel in 2021 was a nightmare. Covid mandates made it even more difficult.

My first two flights were cancelled, a connecting flight in Amsterdam was banned due to the worldwide shutdowns, and time was ticking for a Covid test result to show up in time at checkin. The lab techs from the night before (and driving to three different locations for the specific test) even gave me the lead tech’s cell phone number, to ensure I’d have a result before my flight.

Two cancelled flights, a lot of sleep deprivation, a mental breakdown of ugly crying in the airport floor at 4:30 AM as yet another flight cancelled, two braids in my hair, three bags packed for four seasons later, a pending test result, three flights awaiting, and everything had to be seamless at that point to make it to Moscow on time.

I landed in LaGuardia, had to catch an Uber or taxi across NYC to JFK airport, and needed both a Covid test result and a negative one by the time I reached the checkin desk.

I had to make it to Moscow that night.

I just prayed for God to help me, and felt the deepest peace and surrender.

Isn’t it funny how surrendering to “fate” - the idea that what’s meant to be will be - cause the anxious thoughts to become a mere whisper?

My first flight departed. Then the second. I was relieved just to be off North Carolina soil. Just two more flights to go.

My Uber driver was the coolest Haitian guy in a mini van, who basically preached to me and encouraged me our entire drive. I don’t remember what all we talked about, but we had a super deep conversation.

His kindness made the bustling streets of New York City feel like home for a thirty minute drive.

I was grateful for him.

My test result arrived in the nick of time. It popped up on my phone as I was in line.

It didn’t dawn on me until I glanced down at the long row of hands holding passports. All of them were red, except mine.

All of these people were very different.

I was the only American in line.

Everything indeed happened seamlessly. Everything also was quite surreal. I felt both sheer relief and excitement.

Never had I been so far from home.

Now, I just needed to hear Aeroflot’s wheels blaze down the runway; feel that sense of a giant, flying bus ease high up in the sky. Maybe then, it would feel even more real.

I shared a row with a girl close to my age, Sophia, who had only lived in the states two years, but spoke fluent English. We bonded quickly. We both jumped when the plane’s engine startled us, and she said something like,

“I just want to make it to Moscow!”

I learned she hadn’t seen her mother in two years, and this was her first visit back home.

We shared stories, laughed, dozed off, ate the ethnic TV dinner-esque airline fish and rice, took off our masks, talked about our love lives, interests, ambitions, cultures, politics, and a plethora of other things.

Flight attendants in retro orange uniforms handed out eye covers for the overnight flight. I checked the map and tried not to overthink the fact we were hovering over the Atlantic.

Though Moscow was where she called “Home”, my flight friend Sophia and I shared the same deplaning jitters.

She was about to reunite with her mother for the first time in two years. I was meeting strangers I’d only known on FaceTime and text; stepping into a foreign place with a foreign language to my American ears.

We laughed and showed the other a shaky hand from the nerves. I took a strange comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone in my anticipations. Without even saying it aloud, it’s as if we both took refuge in the other; two strangers from two different parts of the world suddenly becoming the other’s safe place.

“And that’s your line!”

Sophia pointed to the line for immigration, as she headed to hers as a Russian citizen.

We wished each other a “Goodbye”, and with that, I could hardly believe it.

I wasn’t in America anymore.

I was in Russia.

Everything will feel weird at first. But you’ll adapt.

Language teachers will become your BFFs within 48 hours and you’ll go from Russian immersion and having just learned their names and the alphabet - true vocal acrobatics - to coffee dates, exploring the streets of Russia and learning to live like a Russkiy girl, having each other over for dinner, a sleepover featuring a Barbie movie in Russian (someone please hire Ken’s understudy instead), Google Translate (and/or extravagant facial expressions and hand gestures) being the only source of communication, yet feeling like soul sisters within one week’s time.

They’ll introduce you to shawarma, and you’ll introduce them to burritos.

You’ll introduce each other to a lot of different things.

In Russia, you shouldn’t yell “HI!” to random men on the street, like a true born and raised Southern girl, that chicken salad that said “chicken salad” on the menu is definitely not chicken salad (organ donor alert), find yourself enamored by the beauty of a beaten up, tucked away city near the Black Sea and sunset of the Caucasus Mountains one moment, and invited to a Russian’s home for dinner or a walk or tea and songs with the ukulele another.

You’ll get lost on the metro for two hours your first day, be the only person obnoxiously smiling and laughing and enthusiastically people watching, definitely make some passengers uncomfortable - freshly jet lagged, time zoned, still pinching yourself that you made it to Moscow against all the odds (cue Phil Collins) and cancelled flights - learn that crosswalks do not exist and have to casually just cross the streets of Moscow underground, but somehow make it back to Red Square unscathed.

You’ll learn that strangers, despite their expressionlessness are really kind and helpful. You just have to approach them and ask.

Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Unless it’s a questionable taxi driver.

Use your judgment wisely.

You’ll experience the longest Eastern Orthodox church service ever (we’re talking close to the 3 hour mark) with an accordion, understanding zero of anything, except for your language teachers turned Russkiy sisters quietly passing Google Translate back and forth to give some sort of context.

You’ll live without A/C, line dry all your clothes, have a bidet on the porcelain throne, old rotary dial telephone in the foyer, pay in Rubles, wear skirts and dresses below the knee (because you’re in an era long gone, not America), find your staple items and preferred grocery stores and favorite dinners to make and slowly become less intimidated by, you know, human survival and finding your way.

You’ll learn how to live like a Russian.

The biggest compliment you’ll receive from one of the Russkiy sisters, in her gloriously thick, slavic accent is,

“You sound like a natural Russian girl'!”

Спасибо!

You’ll learn that the apartment lights suddenly flickering out as you cook dinner, sirens, car alarms, and explosions just outside the window happening all at once - convinced the city is being bombed or shot up and you’re maybe about to die as you duck for cover in darkness - are just fireworks for the Holiday.

Happy Birthday, Karachay-Cherkessia.

Go big or go home, right?

Google Translate will become your best friend and worst enemy.

You’ll wonder what the heck all those weird symbols are and how those backward looking “R”s are to be read, and the alphabet in and of itself will become your first big challenge.

Newsflash: Not all Russian words have an exact English translation, pronunciation is imperative and literally can change everything, and you may or may not accidentally yell, “B*TCH!” at a young man in an Eastern Orthodox church, when you meant to yell something entirely different. You also may or may not mispronounce one vowel and call a man, “Horse” instead of, you know, his actual name. Whoops.

You’ll love the way Russians call you “Ahn-a” with that rounded vowel (shiver). You’ll also love introducing yourself as the Russkiy “Anna”.

<<Меня зовут Анна!>>

You’ll befriend a shop owner and fashion designer, who warmly invites you and your roommates to not just try on her clothing, but to sit down for coffee. She’ll show you her sketchbook, sewing machine, and dress you in her fashion. She looks like something out of a mid 20th century magazine. You’ll use Google translate to learn about each other, and she’s more interested in you than what you buy from her. She wants to know you and your story.

You’ll visit her shop many more times.

While some may look stoic on the outside, as you ride the metro from Red Square or walk down a store aisle, Russians are warm as butter on the inside. You just have to say “Hi!” (Or “Privet!”) (<<Привет!>>) (Just don’t yell it across the street or excitedly wave at random passersby), and allow them into your world.

All it takes is a moment of curiosity and intention.

Once you allow them into your world, they will allow you into their world too.

I didn’t see a single bra strap, leggings, crop top, cheeky shorts, and I’m not sure if Crocs even existed.

Our wardrobe needed an update. The currency exchange rate made a complete fashion overhaul pretty easy. In America, we were accustomed to fluorescently lit stores stocked with flimsy, overpriced, mass produced clothing and employees who were A) Expected to use persuasive customer service skills to make sales and get commission B) Still expected to use persuasive customer service skills (smile and wave, everyone), probably hated their lives, and ready to be off the clock.

In Russia, we were greeted by stoic faced, expressionless women, who basically dressed us and designed their own clothes. There was zero sugarcoating or wardrobe coercion. They told us (and by “us”, I mean me) on Google Translate that white was not a suitable color (called out), what looked good, and helped us achieve that “Russkiy Lady” flair.

Отличная.

It felt very “Mia Thermopolis” pre-Genovia.

Apparently, Americans were the equivalent of Hollywood superstars to some people in the city we stayed in. I’ll never forget being encircled by phones and videoed in a shoe store. And then another shoe store. The moment the twins and I breathed one English word, you’d have thought we were descendants of Leonardo DiCaprio or Oprah Winfrey.

One young woman approached us and asked for a photo,

“It has been my dream to meet an American, and today, that dream has come true.”

Basically, if you were American, you were a stainless steel immortal; a mystical creature with golden hems and probably a yacht in your backyard.

American films and TV shows were highly renowned in certain parts of Europe, and especially Russia. Many of the locals we met associated American films and TV shows with quite literally being how the average American lived.

I should have had a sign that said I only broke even on my tax return.

But, I did break the news I was an average human, had problems, definitely did not live in a Hollywood mansion, definitely did not live in the high social status rink, but happened to be from America. Nothing more, nothing less.

We too were just girls looking for the same connection as the Russian locals.

Our time was cut over three months short.

We had no idea a war was on the horizon.

We had no idea we’d end up in Antalya, Turkey, just a month later.

Due to some unforeseen circumstances in the area, it became necessary and safest for us to leave.

We were crushed.

We’d just made this peculiarly charming town our “home”, had artistic and photo projects planned, committed to 20 hours of Russian language learning a week, found our new “normal”, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, had to leave.

I’ll never forget the embrace of our Russkiy sisters.

You’d have thought we were from the same bloodline or knew each other for years. The twins and I were kind of shocked at our own emotions. We literally knew these girls for two weeks, yet there we were in a group embrace, ugly crying (ok, I’m the ugly in “ugly crier”), clinging to each other in the foreign sisterhood we’d discovered.

They weren’t just acquaintances. They weren’t just language teachers.

They even tried to refuse our money.

They were our refuge in a foreign place and guides to a new rhythm of life.

They were teachers for far more than Russian language. They were teachers of connection, compassion, and kindredness in the most unlikely place. With them, we felt truly understood and seen.

One of the girls typed into Google Translate,

“I hope to see you again in this life, but if I cannot, I will see you in Heaven.”

<<Я люблю вас.>>

Goodbye, my Russkiy sisters.

As we parted ways, I looked back over my shoulder, until everyone faded out of sight. I always tell myself not to look back, but something in me clings to every last ounce of connection until it’s forced away. I couldn’t believe it.

Though our Russkiy sisters faded from my sight, the memories of Russia have not.

Just one whiff of that same perfume, and I’m right back on the walking streets of Russia.

Walk with me in Russia.