September/October 2012

I saw the places where my parents grew up “Last boarding call for Flight 31 to Moscow, Russia. Last call for Flight 31.” The JFK PA machine was loud and clear, not fuzzy like usual, and I felt pained as I acknowledged that it was time to say goodbye to Dad. “Dad, promise me that you’ll take care of Mom and yourself. Promise me you’ll see the doctor about that repeating headache problem. Promise me you’ll be careful when driving and call me every day. Do you promise?” I demanded, as if I was a hundred-year-old woman having a nervous breakdown, instead of an eleven-year-old girl about to go on an adventurous trip. I bit my fingernails. Is everything I am saying going straight through him? My father laughed a bit, but my glum stare forced him to stop. “I promise,” he swore, his tone grim and serious. The corners of his eyes were creased with concern and his face seemed to be asking me, “What about you? Will you be careful? Do you promise?” “Agreed then,” I answered, matter-of-factly. “In return, I promise to be smart in Russia.” I kissed him on the cheek and said, “See you in a month,” giddy with anticipation of my upcoming travel adventures. I headed towards my grandmother who was already showing the flight attendant our tickets. I could not believe that in less than ten hours I would be halfway across the world! * * * A month later, I was back in that same airport, getting off that almost-same flight—Moscow to New York. New York! I had missed this place too much. I thought of when we had traveled through Russia by boat. I remembered all those hours when I gazed at the serene, seemingly endless surface of the River Volga, in which the trees surrounding it cast their long, dark shadows. I felt the water spray from the fast-moving boat against my skin, heard the seagulls squawking in the air, smelled the soothing aroma of forest pines drifting through the breeze. Yet all I could think about was where my parents were at that moment and how gloomy I felt without them by my side. How’s New York in general? Had the fireworks for Independence Day burst through the night in a flash of beauty? Were the lakes in Central Park beginning to cover with moss-green algae? Had the Con Edison workers finished the construction on Second Avenue? What new exhibits were on display at the Metropolitan Museum? I had wondered. Most of all, I recalled that first homesick night in Moscow when I couldn’t fall asleep no matter what. I tossed and turned all night, looking out the stained, cracked window into the pitch-black street, where shadows fell like creepy ghosts, breathing in my ear, “You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here.” Grandma said I couldn’t sleep because of the jetlag, but I didn’t think so. But my trip was far from being a weep fest. In fact, I had an incredible time. I saw the places where my parents grew up. I saw fascinating museums, the cobblestone streets where Catherine the Great took her morning strolls 300 years ago. I visited the building where all the Russian cosmonauts are trained. I walked through St. Petersburg at one o’clock in the morning during the spectacular White Nights. I stepped into abbeys built in the ninth century. Sometimes, walking from street to street, one memorable experience to another, I’d be too awed to even put my feelings into words. Nevertheless, when I sat on that plane back to America, I was eager to get back to New York. I couldn’t wait to see Dad picking me up at the airport, telling me how much he had missed me. Therefore, when we got off the plane, it was all a blur—I was too overwhelmed to notice anything. Not the swooshing of turning-on cell phones, not the comforting smell of freshly baked blueberry muffins coming from duty-free cafes, not the rough feeling of people pushing disrespectfully past you. I felt as if Dad was not more than an inch away, as if I could touch him already, as if I heard his voice directly above my head, as if all I had to do was reach up—and there he’d be. “Come on. Come on!” I told Grandma impatiently. “Hurry up!” We squeezed through the crowds of people heading towards the big traffic jam—the customs inspection. I was still in my daze though—imagining seeing them: my parents and New York. I could almost imagine every feature of my mother’s face—and the structure of every tower that scrapes the sky above New York City. “Next,” one of boundary inspectors called. “Stall 22, please.” “Cool!” I whispered to Grandma. “That’s my lucky number.” “OK, kiddo, let’s go,” she replied sarcastically. We walked towards the stall. The man sitting in it had a shrewd, wrinkled old face with deep, wicked dimples in his smile. He sneered at us and ordered, “Documents,” as if he was an evil king and we, his helpless subjects. My grandmother dug through her purse for the passports and the declaration slips that were filled out on the plane. She handed them over to him. He snatched them from her as though the papers were a gun and poor Grandma was about to fire. He looked through the papers for so long that I began to wonder if he fell asleep. I wanted to ask, Is there a problem? but I didn’t. That would be rude. At last, he sighed as if he could not wait to get off duty and said, “You need a document providing the permission of the parents.” “Yes, yes, I have it,” assured Grandma. She dug back into her purse and fished out the neatly folded piece of paper. “Here you go.” He grabbed it so fast that I was sure it would rip—but it did not. He examined it thoroughly. As he looked up,