Hello Mother, hello Father

If you have been alive long enough, you will remember these catchy commercial lyrics from the 80s. It featured a little girl writing home to tell her parents about camp. More and more lately, I feel like my life is like camp and I will tell you why.

When I was a girl, each summer I saved money, sold consumable food items, and begged so I could go to camp. I went several years in a row and when weekly camp wasn't possible, I went to day camp. I learned the buddy system for the swimming pool, became proficient in the leather-works shop, and saved my quarters to use at the canteen. When I wasn't at camp alone, each summer for one week we went to family camp. We had our own grade appropriate counselors, mom and dad went to hear speakers about improving your family, and the afternoons were filled with beaches and sunshine. We were never rich but I've come to realize that the camp experience tops the charts in my memory bank.

When my husband and I were engaged, we were camp counselors. I became that iconic college student who got little sleep, was always up for a round of four-square, and held kids' hands on the way to the beach. One particular little boy wrote to me years later telling me how special I was to him.

So now we live on the compound in the eternal twilight zone of camp. I'm making relationships that will seal in my heart forever. I can visit the commissary (canteen) and get good ole' American candy any time I want and still use my quarters. If I don't feel like cooking, we walk down to the cafeteria or restaurant and we go swimming as much as possible. There are activities in which to get involved and everything is just a walk away. As my kids and I march to the gate, we often hold hands, swing arms, and sing a camp song.

Obviously I still have my regular duties here, but most of the time it feels like organized fun. The downside to all this fun is that camp usually only lasted a week. I have endured several months of these pumped up activities and family togetherness. I like family togetherness, but lately I really prefer my family. This doesn't mean I don't like yours, it's just that sooner or later, you're going to leave anyway. I'm ready to exchange addresses and pretend like we'll keep in touch. The truth is, it rarely happens. Everyone is well meaning when they say, "We'll see each other again," but we probably won't.

So camp is fun. But somewhere deep in my heart I'm ready to come home, when I figure out exactly where that is.

Moves like Jagger

Last weekend we attended a birthday party for a Russian friend of ours at a restaurant. We casually walked into one of the hippest restaurants in one of the biggest cities in the world. Just past the chic outdoor seating complete with fur blankets, the smell of Georgian food welcomed us inside the door. Once we arrived at our table, our hostess, the guest of honor, greeted us with three kisses on the cheeks and introduced us to her friends. We saw a few of our American colleagues there as well and greeted them. Everyone brought flowers. There was another girl across the room with the same name celebrating her birthday also. The waitress pointed out that the other girl didn't get beautiful or many flowers.

Throughout the evening we shared good conversation, excellent Beluga Vodka, and the iconic khachapuri cheese bread. Hubby ordered his with an over-easy egg in the center. Yum...or not. I stuck with the lamb shish-kebab. Throughout the evening, slightly louder than the sound of joy and friendship was the ever present accordion. I asked for the Russian word for accordion. It is a "akordeon". Anyway, I found myself bobbing my head to the tune and realized the man near the piano was playing "Moves Like Jagger." The only reason I know this song is because I watched an episode of Glee by mistake once and it featured the wheel-chair kid singing this song. I can't get that time back...

Seriously though, where else could you hear a rousing rendition of "Moves Like Jagger" on the accordion? Shortly after that, the waitress brought out complimentary shots. I typically don't care for things of unnatural colors, but those who did taste them determined it was cheap vodka mixed with some sort of peppers or hot sauce. No thank you. One of the Russian guests put her hand up to me and said, "High-Five!" So I obliged. For the next few minutes we taught them all how to high-five. We also taught them not to leave somebody hangin'.

Our hostess ordered cake and a song so somebody asked the accordion player to pipe down for a few minutes. Like most independent musicians, he was sorely disappointed and huffed his way through the maze of tables. We did not hear from him again that evening. Many toasts were offered in both English and Russian, but my favorite was when a female gave a long, long, long explanation in Russian to her friend. She summed it up in English as, "I told her she is a good friend." As the night went on, the restaurant cleared out and we were asked to leave or they would call the police. That was an easy choice.

Outside of the restaurant, we stumbled across two foreigners looking for a pub. One was from France and one from Argentina but since they spoke such excellent English, we invited them along to join our party. We shared some beers, talked about Versailles, and then walked home in heels and moonlight. I'm not sure yet, but I think I like living in the city.

Therapy

MRIs have been analyzed, diagnosis is in, and physical therapy is three days a week. Sometimes when I'm in a group of people I don't know, I purposely throw out the idea that I have to go to "therapy" weekly. I always wonder, are they gutsy enough to ask me what kind of therapy or will they ask my neighbor? Probably the latter. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is I am always excited for a new adventure in Moscow.

Spring is the worst. I know you think I would say winter is the worst, but winter is exactly what it should be. Cold, dark, icy, terrible. It's the long part that never seems to agree with me. I know that spring will arrive after April 15, but the last few weeks of partly cloudy, mushy, whatever have left me completely depressed. That, and the fact that I know it begins the season of people leaving. This will be my third year saying goodbye. It's like being a fifth year senior. All of our class is moving on, yet here we are. Pity party over.

So....therapy. I am so thrilled at the idea of living in the city where I can walk anywhere that I often choose walking over any other form of transportation. The first time I walked to the medical center, it took me 25 minutes. Not bad. However, my brilliant girlfriend mentioned to me, "What about the bus?" Duh! The bus! For two years we lived where a bus wasn't always an option. Now that it is, I often forget about it. Now when I go to the doctor, I walk for five minutes, ride a bus for five minutes, then walk five more. Way less exhausting and much more simple.

The bus costs 28 rubles. Russians prefer exact change. Each day when I go I make sure I have exactly 56 rubles for bus fare. After doing this for a week, the big-wigs of public transit decided to change the rules. Now it's 50 rubles for two rides. It's actually cheaper but I wasn't aware of this change when I handed the driver my carefully counted 28 rubles. He was not impressed.

Once I arrived at the medical center. I made sure to check my coat, put on the blue booties, and check-in with the clerk. The doctor spoke only Russian so her assistant arrived to interpret and walked me down to the physical therapy department. Follow me in your mind: walk down a steep stairway, turn a sharp corner. Watch your head for the low-lying bulkhead marked with a red plastic lid stapled onto it. Turn a sharp right again. Step over a ridiculously high threshold that looks something like a door on a submarine. Now weave and wind through hallways that are littered with full-size locker cabinets sometimes walking sideways to avoid the chairs in front of the doors. And finally, here we are.

Once inside, physical therapy happens. I've successfully mastered the Russian words for pain, discomfort, and feeling better. Other than that, there isn't much to tell you about except that if you haven't had electro-therapy, you should try it.

Once I leave, I head back to the bus to go home. Yesterday the bus was hailed by a traffic cop. We stopped behind him and sat there for longer than usual. After he was finished with citing another car, he hopped on the bus. So I guess public servants ride the bus for free. No squabbles about 28 rubles for him.