How Dry is it?

As an American living outside the U.S., trips here always feel both familiar and foreign.

Because I haven’t lived there in 30 years, Oklahoma especially feels foreign to me. For one thing, the pace is slow and people are polite. They also call me “ma’am,” which I have to admit I prefer over “young lady.” In Oklahoma, "young lady" can be used to address women from age 6 to 106.

I was waiting for a to-go order at Perkins Restaurant in Ponca City, when a fellow customer asked me, “Ma’am, are you in line?”

In line? I was at least FOUR FEET away from the line at the checkout counter. Six to eight Russians could have fit in that space in a line in Moscow. I couldn’t have been any more out of line if I’d been outside in the parking lot.

Even Arizona, my home for 14 of the last 25 years, seems a bit unfamiliar. For example, I was shocked to see how dry it is here. I barely had time to raise my hairbrush before my wet hair was completely blow dried.

I also suffered from constant headaches until I upped my water intake. For me, this translated into at least 8 ounces of water every 90 minutes, on top of any other beverage I might want. I was tempted to carry around a Camelback backpack and a port-a-potty around all day for convenience.

Of course, any minor conveniences are more than overcome by beautiful weather, glorious sunsets and a fabulous array of Mexican food. To make up for lost culinary time, we are eating Mexican food almost every day with no sign of burnout. So far, we’ve had Tex-Mex, Sonoran, Mexico City, fish tacos, and still have a Santa Fe place on the list.

Soon enough, we will leave the sunny land of chilies, tortillas and guacamole for the snowy land of cabbage and potatoes. Gather ye poblanos, while we may…

I've Got Baggage

We’re in the U.S. now on our annual home leave. In the space of a few weeks, we briefly see friends and family on top of getting in a year’s worth of medical and dental appointments. Today, for example, I have appointments with both my gynecologist AND my dentist.

This is also the time I must buy whatever shortening, powdered sugar, cocoa, maple syrup, spices, canned chilies, Ziplocs, brown sugar, over-the-counter medications, vitamins, and decent coffee, I’ll need in the coming year. And if I underestimate, we have to do without. And we DO not want to live without decent coffee.

Because of our luggage limitations, my top shopping criteria are weight and volume. I can buy expensive makeup, lingerie, and jewelry if I want; but have to pass on my long-fored big long-burning candles, thick fluffy towels, canned chicken stock, and American flour. Our luggage must also accommodate Christmas presents, a huge SAD lamp, whatever new clothes we want for the next year, and our tennis gear for Arizona.

We put a lot of effort into the logistics of moving our luggage around, including hiring a porter to get our 12 bags from the curb to the check-in counter. In Oklahoma City, three of the six bags we were checking were overweight. We were flying America West to Phoenix which I now learned charges DOUBLE the cost of Delta or Continental for overweight bags.

I had to unlock and redistribute the weight from our already crammed bags in the middle of the terminal. (You can imagine how happy all the customers in line behind me were.) Larry missed most of the excitement as he was returning our rental car, chosen because of its ability to accommodate our luggage, not our children. In fact, my luggage causes me far more problems than my children ever did when traveling overseas.

We’re continually monitoring: Did we get all our luggage? How’s the condition of the bags? Are all the locks and straps accounted for? It's gotten to the point where I am accompanying my luggage, rather than the other way around.

Xbox Marks the Spot

“Attention Wal-Mart shoppers,” I heard over the store’s loudspeaker. “We have just gotten in a shipment of Xbox 360s in the electronics department.”

Now, I may live on the other side of the world, but even I knew the Xbox 360 was the hot, impossible-to-find gift for this Christmas. I quickly located my mother in the grocery section. “Mom, did you hear that announcement about Xboxes? Is there anyone you know who needs one?”

My mother considered, “No... Well, Kim was looking for one for Danny when they were here for Thanksgiving. But I think she got one by now.” We were debating whether to call them, when my brand new U.S. cellphone rang.

It was my brother, Tracy. Before he could get a word out, I said, “Did Kim ever find an Xbox? Mom and I are in Wal-Mart and they just announced they got a shipment of them in.”

“Can you get one?” he asked.

“I'll go see,” I said. With Tracy standing by, Mom and I headed over to electronics. On the phone in the background, I could hear Tracy hollering for his wife, Kim.

Luckily that morning, the Ponca City Wal-Mart was not full of customers willing to immediately shell out more than $400 for a game system. The Wal-Mart clerk directed Mom to a register where they whipped one of the coveted systems out on the counter for us.

“We can get it,” I told Tracy.

“If you can get it, we want it,” affirmed Tracy.

“They want it,” I told my mother. The clerk rang up the purchase. Mom was about to swipe her credit card when Tracy suddenly asked, “Is it the one in the white box? Does it have a hard drive?”

“Wait!” I said, “Does this have a hard drive?” I read all the technical specifications printed on the white box to Tracy. He assured us it was the right one. Mom finished the purchase and we wheeled our cart back to the front of the store to pay for the groceries. I closely guarded Danny’s Xbox. We didn’t want anyone lifting it out of the cart while Mom was busy buying cereal.

We headed for home where Mom wisely put it inside a bigger box for shipping. As I had spent the past two months shopping online in Russia and shipping stuff to her house, she had plenty of shipping boxes and packing materials from which to choose.

I talked mom out of the holiday crowds at the post office in favor of the UPS store where there was no waiting. For $13 (plus $6 for insurance), she got three-day shipping and a tracking number.

The UPS guy needed to know what we were shipping for insurance purposes. “It’s a… game system,” I finally said. I didn’t want to advertise we were shipping the most highly sought-after gift of the season.

“I’m guessing you got an Xbox 360,” the cagey UPS guy said. He went on to explain how when they first came out, some friend of his put several units on layaway. The guy then advertised them at a very healthy mark-up on E-bay. When they sold, he used the proceeds to redeemed them from layaway and ship them out.

We called Tracy with the tracking number. He called us back about five minutes later to ensure the number was correct. (It was, but it took an agonizing six hours for UPS to put our package in their system.)

The Xbox arrived on schedule, hopefully giving Danny a very Merry Christmas; and it only took the combined efforts of the Ponca City Wal-Mart, UPS, Kim, Tracy, my mother, and me to make it happen.

Here's hoping that all of you got your Xbox 360 or Ipod Nano or Sony PSP or WHATEVER it is that fills you with happiness this Christmas.

Right: Merry Christmas from Alec, Nancy, Taylor and Larry

Breathing Room

Photo by Alec Perkins: View from J.O.'s home outside Tuttle, OK.

Larry's father, J.O., died while we were enroute to see him in Oklahoma.

J.O. suffered from serious lung problems for years. Through sheer determination he had lived years longer than his doctors' predictions. But over the last several weeks, his condition had dramatically deteriorated. The day he died, he told his loving wife, Loretta, that he was sorry he couldn't wait for us.

But we would not have wished him a minute more of suffering. Besides, Larry explained that there was nothing left unsaid between them; they were secure in their love and respect for each other.

This down-to-earth practicality and a devotion to family are only two of the wonderful qualities Larry inherited from J.O.

I best remember J.O. sitting at the end stool of the kitchen counter in the home he loved, in relaxed conversation. While I will always miss J.O., I'm comforted to think of his spirit now drawing big, easy breaths, and using them to share his wonderful stories.

The Great Escapes

The Great Escapes

Our Delta flight from Moscow to Atlanta had a double feature: The Fantastic Four and Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Larry’s headphones didn’t work so I gave him mine. I actually like being able to watch escapist movies without the sound. That way I don’t have be distracted by the inane plot or the stupid dialogue. Instead, I can concentrate on what these films do well: the special effects and attractive actors.

I don’t get that choice with my books. I read a lot of escapist books in Moscow, or at least I try. But I’m having more and more trouble with my “light” reading. For example, I picked up one of Larry’s Dan Brown books about a mathematical genius with “the body of a swimsuit model.” At this point, I knew I was in trouble but having a limited choice of books, I carried on anyway. I finally had to give up after one of the “best minds in the country” was simply unable to get her arms around the idea that someone had accessed her computer and she hadn’t given anyone the password!

After that, I raided Taylor’s library and came up with a Hallmark Special book on the Monkey King. The protagonist, who had advanced degrees in Chinese History from a top American university, was visiting the Qian Warriors. This was his FIRST trip to China. (How can you have advanced degrees in Chinese history and NEVER been there?) He had been hired as a private guide by an American millionaire. (Why in the world would some millionaire hire a guide who’d never been to China? He should have gotten that Chinese guide that mom and dad had in Qian. That’s who the American presidents use. Plus she can handle all the local logistics which I’m sure are beyond the Chinese History major.)

Clearly, my escapist reading was escaping from me. I can not afford to be picky as Moscow has a limited supply of books in English. I try to read anything I find, a term a friend of my sister’s called scavenger reading. There are a few limits, however. I’ve only read about half of my book on Chekov’s short stories. And I wisely opted not to tackle seasonal depression and War and Peace at the same time.

But after books with Chinese experts who’ve never been to China and brilliant mathematicians who don’t understand the concept of hacking, maybe I’ll give Chekov another try.

The Power of Makeup

My young girl’s dream came true when I was in the seventh grade. That was when I finally talked my mom into letting me wear make-up. For months afterwards, I could always be seen with a slash of garish green blazened across my eyelids.

Thus began my love affair with makeup. I wore it pretty much everywhere, something I considered perfectly normal until my friend Sally asked, “You’re putting on makeup to go hiking in the Grand Canyon?” Hey, my mother wears makeup to aerobics—and that’s WATER aerobics. I put on makeup to go to the hospital to have labor induced.

I especially love the Estee-Lauder gift with purchase holiday makeup kits. Larry may not know it yet, but he’s already ordered me a box from Macy’s for Christmas! The Estee Lauder make-up kit is like the adult version of a Crayola Crayon giant coloring box. But just like crayons, there’s some things I don’t use: I’ve given up the eyeshadows in primary colors, brilliant pink lipsticks, brown mascaras, and almost anything with orange. These products have languished unopened in my makeup drawer the past year.

But no longer. Kathy, an acquaintance of mine, works with Doctors Without Borders in assisting street children. These are often kids who are shoved out of orphanages when they reach 16 or 17 and even younger kids who left very troubled homes. These kids have a staggeringly low life expectancy.

Kathy was putting small gift packets together for them. She had collected a lot of travel-sized shampoos, soaps, and toothbrushes from expats who can easily pick them up on business class flights and in hotels. But what these teenage girls who lived in on the streets wanted, like teenage girls everywhere, was makeup. (Makeup is VERY expensive in Moscow.) But makeup, I have. I cleaned out my drawer for Kathy.

It will take vast resources and social will to solve the problems of street people, an issue that is all too slowly being addressed. In the meantime, I can personally testify to the power of makeup, the power to make a girl feel better even if just a little while.

For more information on what's being done, see the bottom of the page at this link: http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/news/russianfederation.cfm

Fox Tales

The phone rang in my apartment. I answered it and was met with a flood of Russia. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Russian. I speak English,” I said in my best Russia.

The caller did NOT take my word for it. If I could say all that in Russian, who was to say that I really DID speak Russian? She continued jabbering at me in Russian until I hung up.

She called back still yammering at me a mile a minute. I did what I usually do when people don’t listen to me, regardless of the language: I say the exact same phrase over without inflection. But each time, I get slower as if the listener were mentally impaired or just plain stupid.

This is a technique I perfected years ago on magazine sales people. About the third time I said in a tempo that was now crawling, “I…don’t…want…any…magazines,” they’d leave me alone.

Unfortunately, this trick only seemed to infuriate my Russian caller. She called back three more times over the next hour. (Did she think that I was suddenly going to learn Russian? Oh, yeah, go ahead. I can understand you now.) By the fifth call, I took a full 30 second to get through, "I don't speak Russian" (Ya Nee Ga-var-u Ba-Ru-ski).

After that, I gave up and let the answering machine pick up. This left her in an impossible situation as your average Russian would NEVER leave a message on your answering machine. It’s like asking the KGB to visit your flat during the Stalinist era; it just doesn’t happen. Instead, I had five hang-ups in a row after the message (recorded by Larry in English) came on.

The next day, Mrs. Persistent called again. This time, before I could go through my even slower rendition of “Ya Nee Ga-var-u…,” she begins frantically saying, “FOX! FOX! FOX!” Did she want to sell me a fox coat? Was there a fox on the loose in my building?

As my Russian teacher was sitting across the table, I handed the phone to her. She listened and then said to me, “She wants to send you a fax.”

I told my teacher I didn’t have a fax machine which ended the situation. Mrs. Persistent was probably ordered to fax an advertisement to everyone in my neighborhood. In Moscow, your phone number is tied to your apartment. Giving someone your home phone number is the same as giving them address.

Maybe that’s why cellphones are so popular here. While no one ever calls on my cellphone to talk about foxes, I do get instant messages occasionally. But as these are always in Russian, it’s easy to just delete them without paying any attention. Ya Nee Ga-var-u Ba-Ru-ski.

Sweatshirt Mood

Photo: The typical December view from my apartment at 2 p.m.

I didn’t realize it, but I issue clear warning signs with my seasonal depression. Yesterday, Taylor took one look at my OU sweatshirt and said, “You’re feeling sad, aren’t you?”

Apparently, my sweatshirt and corduroy jeans are a direct reflection of my listlessness, sort of clothing version of a mood ring. He added, “You usually look nice when I come home from school.” Gee, thanks. But who feels like wearing pearls and cashmere to mope on the sofa?

Larry can tell I’m depressed because the quality of my dinners deteriorates. Last night, my homemade chili, which is usually delicious, tasted as if I had dumped a can of Campbell’s beans over some chunks of hams. My fresh salad, topped with bottled dressing, was similarly sad sack.

This morning, I looked out the window and faced another day that was cold and gray. Fortunately, I was scheduled to go to my Book Club at the historic home of the wife of the Canadian ambassador. Is there anything more appealing than talking about a bad book with friends in a lovely setting? Without this kind of motivation, I’d be spending the entire day sitting on the windowsill in my pajamas.

So I donned a nice sweater and some pearls. I tucked my wool slacks into my snow boots to protect them from the oily slush of the streets. I then checked to ensure I had my passport, which I would have to show to clear security. I also took along my best comfy slippers to slip into after I arrived at the residence.

Lastly, I put on a heavy fur jacket, fur hat, long scarf, and fleece-lined gloves. It is usually at this point that I realize that I need to use the restroom.

This afternoon, I probably would not find the motivation to make it to my exercise class, or maybe even to make it off the sofa, but at least this morning, I was on the move.

Shoving for Charity

Photo: Japanese vase.

Saturday was the IWC Bazaar. About 85 embassies had booths at the Radisson Hotel where they sold native products and donated all the money to charity. Last year, I had been appalled by the pushing and crowding, but this year it somehow seemed less crowded. How could this be? There were at least as many people in the same amount of space. Finally, I realized that the event hadn’t changed, but I had.

I was still being elbowed out of the way while trying to look at Azerbaijan Christmas ornaments, Italian handbags, or Chilean wine. But because I’ve now lived in Russia for over a year, I was use to it. Plus, I wasn’t that interested in shopping. I like to buy foreign things because they bring back memories of the places I’ve been. I have no desire to remember the crowds at the Radisson.

Still, I had some money I needed to spend. Earlier this year, I had edited the IWC’s upcoming Living in Moscow Book. I had taken it on as a volunteer project, but earlier this month, the author had handed me an envelope full of cash. Looking at all those crisp hundred dollar bills, I couldn’t bring myself to just stuff it in a donation box.

After some consideration, I decided I COULD part with it by buying IWC raffle tickets. The problem was: I was on the raffle committee and it would look a bit suspicious if I won all the prizes! After consulting with two of the most moral and practical people I know, my mom and Sharon, I decided to spend it on one silent auction item.

You need two things to bid on the most desirable items at the IWC auction. The first thing is a lot of cash. (Credit cards and checks are not accepted and you have to pay within two hours.) The second necessity is a large Russian boyfriend to strong-arm his way to the silent auction bid sheet and to protect you if things start to turn violent. (A cooperative Russian driver or bodyguard will also do.) Being fresh out of large Russian boyfriends and bodyguards, I brought my large American husband—even though I wasn’t sure of his commitment to come to blows over airfare and two nights at a Dublin B & B.

He and I picked out four silent auction items to watch: the trip to Dublin, a $1,000 EU voucher toward a trip to Spain in May, six custom-made shirts, and a 12-inch round antique Japanese celadon vase. Just to warm up, two hours before the auction closed, I made minimal bids on all of them.

Thirty minutes from the auction’s end, I checked back. As expected, the current bids were now double my earlier offerings on the trips and the shirts. (To my surprise, I was still the high bidder on the vase.) My editing earnings would probably only cover ONE of the other three, so I decided to go for the trip to Ireland.

The last ten minutes, we hung near that bid sheet, slipping in several times to keep the high bid. During the last two minutes, Larry had to push his way in. He hadn’t even finished writing his name, before someone shoved in behind him with a higher bid.

That amount was above my limit. I told Larry, “Forget Dublin. We’ll go to Spain!” We ran to the other side of the table where I shoved my way in and wrote my maximum bid with only seconds remaining. As soon as I did, someone wrote a higher price below me.

So the only place I was going was home--with my antique celadon vase. This vase was donated by the Japanese Embassy. It came with the original box, was made by a noted Kyoto potter, and had a stated value of $800. But as nobody else was willing to blow more than $400 on it, it was now mine.

And even though I wasn’t the top bidder on either of the two trips, my last minute bidding had raised the price of each by $150. Due to my participation, the IWC made an additional $300. That’s worth a shove or two.

Shoe-In

My usual choice of footwear this time of year are my sheepskin-lined Ugg knock-offs. Big, warm and ugly, they work well as I'm sloshing through the ice and snow. Unfortunately, they do not work well as a fashion statement at a coctail party. I had to wear something else to the American Women's Christmas party, which is hosted by the ambassador and his wife at their home.

That's why earlier this week, I dove into the recesses of my closet to find a plastic bag containing my "party" shoes. I had bought these over the Internet and I'd never even tried them on. They were a closeout special from Victoria Secret. When I chose them, I had focused on the CLOSEOUT price aspect. But in giving them a closer look, I realized I should have been focusing on the VICTORIA SECRET aspect.

These were four-inch spiked heels, attached to my foot by two tiny black velvet strips. They made my legs look great. It was my ugly boot feet that needed work. If I wore these cruel shoes, I'd have to find time for a pedicure (for more money than the shoes cost). Then I'd have to practice walking in these stilts so as not to embarass myself by toppling into a buffet table (or the ambassador). It was a lot of prep work just to be able to teeter around on these completely uncomfortable, unbalanced shoes. (I already had some perfectly nice black slingback pumps I could wear instead.

But... did I mention how great they made my legs look? Vanity triumphed and I booked the pedicure at my local salon. They only speak Russian there, but luckily I am fluent in Russian salon-speak. Russian for manicure and pedicure is "manicure ee pedicure."

The manicurist took one look at my feet, and pulled out the big electronic equipment. She pretty much SANDED my dead skin away before attacking my toes with a number of serious-looking scissors and files while I sipped my zelonly chai (green tea). Finally, she pronounced my feet fit for polite company and I cavalierly selected a dark metalic red polish.

Of course, once I got these exciting red toes home, I didn't want to mute them with pantihose. My dress, with a chiffon handkerchief dress hit well below my knees, so I opted to go barelegs. Walking out the door, I realized it was snowing and I was now manuvering the treacherous sidewalks of Moscow in freezing weather in bare feet clad only in tiny spiky sandals. Was I nuts? I was, once again, faced with those "How did I get to this point in my life?" thoughts. (Luckily, I really try to ignore these when they crop up.)

My ride was waiting and it took us one-hour of gridlocked traffic to get to Spaso House where the ambassador lives. This is, in fact, a 15 minute walk from my apartment (but not in those shoes).

I cleared security, surrendered my beautiful mink coat, and grabbed my one glass of champagne for the evening. (Even with practice in those heels, that was about all the alcohol I could risk and still balance.) I joined a group of women from my Book Club. "Wow, do your shoes look great!" one of them said. I might have to suffer but my party shoes were destined to be the life of the party.