Dad and I have to go to the Human Resources department so I can register with the embassy. Technically, we should have done it Friday, but we forgot. We go down through the main areas of the compound, past the commissary, the gift shop, the beauty salon, the video store, and the cafeteria. While inside, we pass through a set of double doors into what appears to be a completely separate, very official building with large, framed photos of Bush and Condoleeza Rice on the walls. A large glass window is on the left, and I can see a Marine in his dress blues behind the window in a dark room. Dad holds up his ID tags, so I hold up mine, and the door in front of us clicks as the Marine lets us through.

Dad asks if I recognized the man behind the glass. I think it might have been Chad, the adopted brother, but it was too dark for me to be certain. Dad says, yes, it was Chad, as we get on the elevators and push the button for floor three. This is the building where Dad works, and no one is allowed to say floor numbers. If he needs to tell someone where he’s going, he’ll say, “I’m headed to Human Resources” and hold up three fingers. Actually, up to the third floor is pretty common knowledge, but anything above that can’t be spoken aloud. They always assume someone is listening. So far I’ve completely forgotten about bugs in the embassy. Before I came here, I emailed Dad, very concerned about it. He responded, “They’re only listening for state secrets. You have no state secrets.” And I don’t, really, but I was still pretty neurotic about it. Now, four days into the trip, it’s no big deal. I wonder if this is how people feel on reality shows.

We get to Human Resources and I surrender my passport to a nice Russian girl. They’ll give me a letter to keep while they send my passport over to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I’ll need the passport if I leave the embassy. Russians have to carry their passports on them at all times, much the way we Americans are expected to have a driver’s license, only with what I assume to be significantly severer consequences. I have to come back later in the evening to get my letter.

On the way back to the apartment, we stop in to meet some of Dad’s coworkers, mostly the women who like to gush over things like people’s daughters or wedding plans or Fabio. We go through a high-tech security door, one of those doors on the movies where the people have to swipe a card and give a blood sample and have a background check and give away their firstborn child every time they pass through. Working on doors like these is Dad’s job. I feel privileged to be allowed in.

Only one of the gushing office women is around, and Dad introduces her as “the lady who runs the place.” During our five-minute conversation, she says, “Welcome” three times. She doesn’t specifically say, “Welcome to Moscow,” but I’ll count it anyway. I might even count it three times. We talk about graduation—yes, my grandmother is awesome, yes, I take after her, and no, I don’t have time to give out an autograph—and where we’ll be going in Moscow and some Georgian restaurant she thinks Dad will just love.

Dad has to return to work, so I go back to the apartment on my own. He comes home later for lunch, and we wait for Terese. Terese works part time at her job, so she usually just works until lunch. By the time she arrives, she’s already had a rather hellish day. For starters, while she was in Texas, she was completely locked out of her computer because she didn’t change her password because, well, she was out of the country. Her desk was also completely taken over by some guy whose name I didn’t catch but learned enough about during the course of the conversation to label him a jerk. Her personal affects from her desk were distributed among her colleagues, including a mug I’d given her a couple years back. I’m outraged for her.

Dad goes back to work and Terese and I go down to the cafeteria to eat. The food isn’t bad, but a minute or so in the microwave and some salt and pepper prove beneficial. A violinist is playing gospel songs in the corner. It’s a rather odd scene, considering the very junior-high-cafeteria feel of the place, but it’s a different experience and the violinist is good enough that Terese feels compelled to buy one of her CDs. My adopted brother Chad stops by on his way home from work. He’s wearing his BDUs this time, and halfway through the conversation he points out how they’re digitized. They’re pixelated and look like he was drawn in MS Paint. We all argue amongst ourselves and it’s a rather pleasant time.

Terese and I had planned to go shopping at the Old Arbat with her friend Etelka, but now we have to wait until we can get my passport letter from Human Resources. The Old Arbat is a pedestrian walkway with a lot of street performers and painters and other sights for tourists to behold. Etelka, I’m told, is a lot like Terese. They worked together until Etelka recently got a new job outside of the embassy. Apparently their hair is similar and they often unintentionally dress alike. I’ve already heard all about Etelka’s cheating husband and the rest of her soap opera life. I can’t wait to meet her.

Terese and I spend the afternoon relaxing in the apartment. I pull out a list of Russian words and practice speaking them. I’m disappointed that Russian requires me to roll my R’s. It’s something I’ve never been able to do, and somehow I stumbled my way through seven semesters of Spanish without ever acquiring the ability.

Etelka comes over around the time I’m butchering the Russian word for something like “fruit” or “ice cream.” Neither she nor Terese has any idea what I’m saying, on account of the no-rolling-Rs-situation. I can’t even say Arbat.

“Arrrbat,” I repeat, but I only end up sounding like a pirate.

Everything about Etelka is very exaggerated. She’s beautiful like a Barbie doll with the personality of a cartoon character. We discuss everything from waiting tables to her daughter’s future to whether or not I should move to Moscow and whether or not I spend too much time praying. That’s why I don’t have a boyfriend, Etelka tells me, because I spend so much time with another man. She also welcomes me to Moscow at some point, thereby officially raising my count to seven.

She has to go and Dad and Terese and I leave in search of dinner and the Old Arbat—or Arrrbat, for some of us. An old babushka is selling pickles in a bucket outside of the metro station. The pickles could possibly be the most unappetizing thing I’ve ever seen.

We eat at a place called John Bull’s Pub, which is more British than Russian. We’re seated by a giant window where we can watch the throng of people scurrying in and out and around the metro station. Most of the women have ridiculously high heels, and often the heels are so thin, it makes me feel like I’m losing my balance just watching them. The men wear shoes with toes that curl up like elf shoes. I notice many of the women are also flat-chested. Big boobs is probably an American thing, I imagine. “These are my people,” I think. Many of the older women have dyed their hair bright colors like I’ve usually only seen on punks and skaters and junior high girls who want to date punks or skaters.

After dinner, we pass a MacCafe on the way to the Old Arbat. It’s a McDonald’s that looks like a café, with small tables outside where couples are enjoying their Big Macs with a bottle of beer. Around the corner, a line of people waits for a turn at the walk-up window. Across the street is yet another of the multitude of kiosks around the city. Each one has a very small window about the size of a paperback book or smaller. The window is where people can talk to the workers. The rest of the window space is completely covered with the objects for sale. One kiosk sells everything from beer and cigarettes and candy to computer mice and chairs and ping-pong paddles and teacups and binoculars.

The Arbat isn’t very crowded, so we have plenty of room to take our time watching the street performers and taking pictures. We pass a contortionist on a mat doing stretches I wouldn’t feel comfortable even discussing in public. A group of about fifteen guys have formed a band of clarinets and trombones and tubas and saxophones and drums. It’s like watching a football halftime show, but they’re really good and rather entertaining. Further down, we pass the Peace Wall, where tiles painted by schoolchildren speak out against war. Apparently the wall was part of a project against Reagan’s Star Wars. Some of the tiles are in English. One reads, “It is better to have a bad peace than a good war.” Unfortunately, the wall has been defaced with graffiti over the years, but the result is very chaotic and busy and—surprisingly—aesthetically appealing.

We find a Starbucks and sit inside drinking water and coffee and absorbing the atmosphere. A girl about my age sits at the table next to us, hunched over a journal where she’s scribbling intensely. She stops to read what she’s written, send a text message, and begins writing again. I wish desperately to read what she’s written and wonder if writing is a passion for her or just a way to pass the time. I bet it’s a passion. In this context, she reminds me of myself. The realization is staggering.

We stop at a souvenir shop on the way back. Two young girls are working in the shop, and one speaks very good English. She’s twenty-one with aspirations of visiting America someday. She’s already been to several different countries. She’s very pleasant and reminds us of Lacy, only with bad teeth. Almost everyone I’ve noticed in Moscow so far has had terrible teeth. I would guess it’s directly correlational to the ever-present cigarettes.

On the way home, I keep thinking about the girl in the Starbucks. It’s so easy to look around at the people here and notice all our differences. But the idea of someone who seems so similar to me takes my breath away. I can’t stop thinking about all the people who must have ridden these same metro trains and walked these same stone steps over the years while living in a Communist society. I desire to know everything about everyone. I want to know what their lives were like growing up, how different their upbringings were, and how very much the same we all really are.

In the morning, we meet at the South Gate of the embassy compound where the buses will pick us up. By “buses,” they mean “big vans,” so the drivers have to take a few trips to get everyone to the boat. The thought of being a passenger in a Greyhound or school bus here, where people have to be certifiably insane and have no concept of spatial reasoning to get a driver’s license, is a frightening thought. I’ll stick with the big van, thank you.

We wait in the back while more people arrive. I look down at my ticket. “River Boat Cruise,” it says. Five hours along the River Moskva, as it’s translated from the Russian Cyrillic. In the corner of the ticket, deliberately crooked, yellow, and upbeat, “Live Music By Apple Jack” is advertised in Comic Sans. I don’t know whether I’m more disturbed by the shameless use of Comic Sans or the fact that the band named itself Apple Jack, but I hide the ticket away in my purse. Out of sight, out of mind.

Dad and Terese whisper to me, identifying the other embassy families as they arrive. First is Junebug, a man who, even for a boat ride, dresses like he’s just stepped off the set of Office Space. He’s slightly heavyset—a little like a June bug, in fact, but I’m not entirely sure where the nickname originated. Junebug has a constant smile as if everyone around him is laughing at a joke he doesn’t understand but he smiles so he won’t feel left out. I instantly feel sorry for him and I’m not sure why. He was Dad and Terese’s sponsor when they first arrived on the compound. As a sponsor, it was his responsibility to make them feel welcome, provide them with necessities to get them started, help them find their way around, and introduce them to others. Instead he left little more than a jar of mayo and a loaf of bread in the apartment for them. They had no toilet paper, shower curtain, or paper towels when they arrived, so they found their way around on their own, found the restaurant/bar downstairs, and introduced themselves to the other embassy dwellers.

The next man is someone Dad and Terese say is “very weird,” and I forget his name almost as soon as I hear it. He looks like an adult version of that big kid from Superbad: white guy, curly mess of hair bordering on an afro, constant look of absolute bewilderment at all times. Based on their expressions alone, Junebug may not understand the joke, but this guy doesn’t even know a joke is being told. He looks continuously surprised that the world is happening all around him.

Both of the men have exotic-looking wives from some place like Thailand or Tibet or Taiwan. The story is, these men can’t seem to get American girls, so they travel to other countries where the women are looking for anyone with money in his pocket to whisk them away. The women are pretty, dismissive, bossy, and rude, but it’s as much a status symbol for the men as it is for the women. They’re like trophy wives for geeks.

We arrive at the boat and wait for more arrivals. A couple comes over and sits next to Dad. He used to be Dad’s boss, I’m told, and he has a new girlfriend every week as well as one rather permanent girlfriend, who either doesn’t know or doesn’t care.

Apple Jack, the band advertised in Comic Sans, arrives wearing western shirts and bandanas. The Marines are some of the last people to arrive. My adopted Marine brother Chad comes over to say hi and sticks around. We instantly start fighting with a level of sarcasm I usually only reserve for people I’ve known for more than a week. He’s quickly convinced I really am his sister. Basically, we get along great by arguing nonstop.

I see Terese talking to a couple of the Marines on the other side of the boat, and as they pass by me on their way to the front, one stops to shake my hand. “Welcome to Moscow,” he says. I know she must have told him about my running count, but I don’t care. I’ll take it. My official count is now four.

The weather is perfect for the duration of the ride. It’s sunny and beautiful with a nice breeze coming off the water and a clear view of all the buildings lining the river. We pass at least three of Stalin’s seven sisters—the Hotel Ukraina, the Kotelnicheskaya Apartment Building, and Moscow State University from a distance. Even from afar, the University’s building is breathtaking. I make a mental note to visit the University next time I come to Moscow.

The seven sisters is a group of skyscrapers built by Stalin as a way of boosting Moscow’s morale and prestige. One of the sisters, the Kudrinskaya Square building, is directly across the street from the embassy. Other than the University building, two of the sisters are apartment buildings, two are hotels, and two are administrative buildings.

We pass the Duma, also known as the White House, at least to the Americans I’ve spoken with here. The Gazprom building is located next to the Duma, and I can’t help but snicker at the symbolism. Gazprom is the largest company in Russia and its ties with major Russian politicians has led to much speculation and scandal. Dmitry Medvedev, the newly “elected” President of Russia, was the chairman of Gazprom but was forced to resign that position when inaugurated as President. His replacement is expected to be Vladimir Putin, only further complicating what is already an obvious conflict of interest.

The people along the river are almost more interesting than some of the buildings we pass. Children are playing along the slanted banks with nothing to hold on to other than grout in between the stones. I wonder what the statistics are for children drowning in this river.

We pass numerous couples strolling along or stopped and kissing as if boatloads of people weren’t watching their every move. Countless people are walking their dogs or fishing or watching the boats pass. One girl is filming a couple dressed in 1940s costumes with a fake gun like they’re making a movie. Another man is photographing a woman who is leaned against the wall as if she’s posing for her myspace profile picture or an ad for an escort service.

By far the funniest event of the boat ride comes as we begin to pass a long stretch of green grass. It looks like a park, and people are riding their bikes or walking or eating or otherwise enjoying their sunny Sunday afternoon. Essentially, it’s a modern-day recreation of Seurat’s “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.” Included in this crowd of people, of course, are half-clothed or less than half-clothed women stretched out on towels and benches sunbathing or reading. Every male Marine on board quickly rushes to the side of the boat and stares, whistles, waves, and catcalls at the girls. I try to catch it on video, but all I end up with is a bunch of boys staring off camera, dumbfounded, with stupid grins on their faces like they haven’t seen a woman in two years. Dad jokes that the boat just tilted. Gradually, the amount of women on display dwindles and the Marines go back to their beer and shashlyk.

We pass an enormous statue and fountain of a man on a boat with several smaller boats underneath him. He’s holding a gold scroll in one hand and he appears to be wearing gold-plated armor. Several people on the boat who have obviously been reading up on their travel guides explain it’s officially a statue of Peter the Great. As the story goes, the sculpture was originally built as a gift for America, with the man representing Christopher Columbus and the boats representing the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. America, however, didn’t want the statue, so Russia kept it and called it Peter instead.

We also pass the Red October Chocolate factory, which just happens to manufacture the delicious chocolate candies we had for dinner the night before. We pass several buildings under construction, but at first glance they look whole and normal. Dad tells me the buildings are covered in what appear to be large drop cloths so they still look nice while under construction. The effect is a little surreal as I start noticing them more often. They look like old Hollywood sets with painted-on windows and doors. The behind the scenes feeling I got initially at the airport returns. This entire city has the same feel of constantly residing behind the backdrop. Even the few flashy aspects of the city are mild compared to most American cities.

We pass Saint Basil’s Cathedral and the Kremlin, where my buddy lives, as Terese says. For reasons I can’t quite explain, President Medvedev—or Dmitry, as I prefer to call him—has recently become my new favorite person. Any explanation I might possibly come up with demonstrating my admiration of Dmitry is probably so arbitrary it wouldn’t be worth the time spent trying to understand it.

Several times we pass old, rundown buildings next to new, shiny buildings. I’ve already begun noticing the same contrast in other places. The placement seems deliberate, almost as if the buildings serve as reminders to one another not to forget their history and not to neglect their future. Surely the same juxtaposition exists in America, but here it’s more pronounced, and the effect is oddly beautiful. And as in the metro stations, Soviet symbolism in the form of giant shields and hammers and sickles and the letters C.C.C.P. is everyone on buildings and statues.

Before we leave the boat, Dad introduces me to another of their embassy friends. Like most of the introductions so far, we talk about graduation. Almost everyone here, it seems, has heard about Grandmother’s graduation. I’m continually famous by proxy and I feel like bragging to everyone that my Grandmother is significantly cooler than his or her grandmother, but I try to keep the haughtiness to a minimum. The woman welcomes me to Moscow, and I’m overjoyed. By the end of the day, my count is officially up to five. I’m making progress.

Izmaylov is the bazaar open on the weekends. Dad stays home waiting on his lost luggage to arrive from the airport. He’ll meet Terese and me there later.

We cross a couple streets and make our way to the metro station. Kiosks line the sidewalk outside the station, selling everything from fruit to magazines to medicine to beer to cigarettes. People buy bottles of beer, pop them open, and stand on the sidewalk or in the street drinking. When they’re done, they set the bottles and trash down on a window ledge or the sidewalk. Littering is okay because others have the job of cleaning up the trash. Trash cans, Terese points out, are relatively non-existent. The ones I do see are basically just cardboard boxes with the tops cut off.

A group of children is headed toward the zoo not far from the metro. They’re in our way, but I’m hesitant to cross in the middle of them.

“Just cut through them,” Terese instructs me.

I comply.

“I think I just took out a little kid,” I say.

“He’s young. He’ll bounce back,” she says.

What’s considered rude in most parts of America is standard behavior here and—I am quick to concede—vice-versa. The most obvious difference is the way people push past each other. They’ll push and shove to get through the door before me. They’ll cut in front of me in line if I’m not fast enough. Opening the door to allow a woman to go through first is unheard of. Men and women, old and young alike will take me out getting on and off the metro if I don’t move fast enough or get out of their way. Everyone is very impatient and moves very fast. Basically, Russians act the way I would act if I thought I could get away with it.

Inside the metro station, Terese buys a new card and scans it for both of us. Going down the escalator to reach the metro brings to mind a scene from the Inferno. The tunnel is lit by lamps on the escalators the style of film noir streetlights, cut in half and pointing straight up—a stark contrast to the steep incline of the escalators. We stand on the right and people pass us on the left, running full speed down the steps. Standing still is disorienting enough for me. I can’t imagine running down them without losing my balance completely and falling to a very ugly and dramatic Dante-esque demise.

We ride the metro for several stops. General metro etiquette is to hold one’s bags in one’s lap, stare straight ahead or at least above the head of the person across the car, and pretend to be very angry about something or at least very serious. However, if an American girl is repeatedly taking pictures and capturing video of the passengers in the metro car, it is then acceptable to acknowledge her, but only by staring and frowning. Also, cell phone service is so good here that people are able to check messages and send texts even on the metro car so far below ground.

The next metro station has elaborate carvings on the wall of the track and on top of the columns. Hammers and sickles are everywhere, a constant reminder of how recently the Soviet Union’s collapse really was. I remember learning the U.S.S.R. in school and later relearning it as Russia and the other various Soviet Bloc countries.

Dad has mentioned the overabundance of statues often, but the sight of them still catches me off guard. Giant, looming, angry statues greet the passengers coming in to the station and bid an ominous farewell to those brave enough to exit to the street. Flowers lay at the feet of some of the statues. Terese says people leave the flowers at those statues that signify a specific event or sentiment related to the memory of lost loved ones. I can’t see them as comforting reminders. All I see is a country that thrived on the fear of its citizens finding just one more way to threaten them. I’m awestruck and terrified now just looking at the statues, frozen in time amidst angry yells, with unforgiving stares and weapons outstretched.

Out on the streets, stray dogs sprawl on the ground as if dead. We pass at least six dogs lounging on the sidewalk or curled against buildings. A short walk later, the venders begin. Rows of wooden makeshift shops line the sidewalk, selling watches and shoes, clothes and bags, knives and toys, bras and sunglasses. One vender sees me eyeing a jacket and grabs me by the wrist, trying to pull me back. Terese says, “No, no, no,” and yanks his hand away from me. We keep walking.

We pay ten rubles per person to get inside. The booths of merchandise for sale appear to extend for miles. Matryoshkas, my new obsession, are everywhere I turn. Homemade copies of new release DVDs, framed black and white photographs, tapestries, more watches and pocket watches and bags and clothes fill every inch of the bazaar. Amber jewelry is very common and can be very expensive. Fabergé eggs fill every few booths, as do elaborately painted wooden eggs. Chess sets are also quite prevalent and high quality. In fact, with the exception of knock-off clothing, handbags, and accessories, all the work is extremely well crafted. The matryoshkas, for example, are flawlessly painted, even down to the tiniest doll.

We buy a few gifts and find a shop selling books of Soviet propaganda posters. Some are advertisements and some are in support of one war or another. One book is comprised entirely of vice posters—anti-drinking, smoking, laziness, and “sexual terrorism.” The posters are very blunt and translate to lines like, “Daddy, stop drinking” and “When you’re drinking, your family is starving.” Terese and I each buy a set.

At some point the rows of goods for sale begin looking less like souvenir shops and more like garage sales and antique stores. Some booths are entirely filled with religious icons. Others are meticulously arranged to resemble libraries with book-lined shelves, oil paintings on the wall, and old clothing draped upon coat hooks.

Some Russian men walk by eyeing me, saying something that may or may not have been inappropriate—I can’t be sure, but everything sounds dirtier in Russian. Three babushkas—old, usually large Russian women—are standing on the steps singing. They wear funny pointed hats with fleur-de-lis-like designs, floral print scarves over their wool coats, and long, floral print dresses. They all look mean as if they would try to eat me, given the chance. Now I know how Hansel and Gretel must have felt. Still, I stand a few steps down from them and take pictures and video of their singing. One of the women gestures repeatedly for me to put money in the tip hat resting on the step in front of them. Terese hands me some rubles, so I toss them in the hat. The babushkas ignore me and keep singing.

Dad meets up with us and we find lunch. There’s an outdoor restaurant of sorts selling shish kebobs of smoked chicken, beef, and salmon, so we each get one. We wait upstairs for one of the ladies to bring our food. The dining area is basically a large wooden attic filled with smoke from the meat cooking below mixed with the customers’ cigarettes. Cheap stuffed animals, the kind usually won at a carnival, are stuck haphazardly on the wall above the windows.

After lunch, we still have half the bazaar to explore. Dad and Terese purchase a piece of Uzbek art. Most of the ceramic pieces are plates, cups, and other dishes. All are decorated in geometric shapes of bold greens and blues with occasional touches of brown.

I finally find a matryoshka doll I love. It’s mostly a beautiful teal color with scenes painted on each of the pieces. I’m not sure what the images represent, although I’m told each scene signifies a story from Russian folklore. A large doll with ten pieces like this one runs about forty dollars. Some of the smaller dolls are only a few dollars. Other dolls, more intricately painted or with more pieces, are much more. But this particular one I fall in love with and can’t wait to get home so I can stare at it some more.

Back at the apartment in the embassy, I admire my matryoshka doll and watch TV while Terese makes dinner. Some of the channels are actual Russian channels, but some of them are in English. These are the Air Force Network channels and predominantly show programs that previously aired months or years earlier in America. Commercials don’t exist on these channels. Instead, the time between show segments is filled with military propaganda. Sometimes the spots remind military personnel not to spill government secrets or not to voice personal opinions about politics while in uniform. Some of the spots are aimed at families in the military or other government position, suggesting ways to ensure their children are raised normally and healthy and ways to get involved in the community. Other intervals are filled with lists of currency exchange rates or gas prices in various countries in Europe.

Night sneaks up on us. The sun doesn’t typically set until around ten, so around eleven or twelve it still feels like eight or nine. By the end of the evening, my “Welcome to Moscow” count is still only three, including Terese and the airline stewardess. I feel inadequate. Perhaps Dad was more welcome here than I am. Tomorrow we’ll be taking a boat ride with others from the embassy compound. I keep my fingers crossed for more people to welcome me and finally fall asleep much later than I had planned.

Dad wakes me up by knocking on the door and calling, “Bossy Butt? You awake?”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“One o’clock,” he says.

I haven’t slept until one since I last had the flu, and even then I got up early before realizing I was still ill. I climb out of bed, shower, and go upstairs for coffee. Dad’s already exchanged my Visitor’s Pass for a Guest of Embassy Pass, which basically means I have more privileges and don’t require an escort as I walk around the embassy compound. I feel pretty special.

Terese and I go get my passport back from the guards and walk around outside the brick wall surrounding the embassy compound. We stand on the corner of the sidewalk for a minute. The traffic is unreal. Cars are driving literally in every direction and the honking is continuous.

We remove our badges from around our necks and shove them in our pockets and purses so as not to make ourselves targets for Russians who may not be particularly fond of Americans. We walk down the sidewalk and I take too many pictures of the Duma—the lower Parliamentary house—and one of the seven sisters behind it and of all the billboards and signs that are relatively uninteresting except they’re in Russian. The embassy seal is on the wall by the south gate, so I start snapping pictures. A guard comes out of his booth and berates us.

“No photo, no photo,” he says.

Terese holds up her tags and I quickly root through my purse to find my prized Guest Pass.

“Oh, you work here?” the guard asks.

“I live here,” Terese says.

“Oh, nevermind, nevermind,” he says, and returns to his booth.

We keep walking around the compound and enter through a gate around the corner. We walk past the building where Terese works and back toward the rows of apartments. The bike rack in the breezeway is overflowing with tricycles and street bikes and mountain bikes. Inside and down an elevator is where we find the little grocery store they call the commissary. US dollars are accepted. Some of the prices seem reasonable and others are outrageous. A twelve-pack of sodas, for example, costs something like twelve or thirteen dollars.

We run into a couple of Terese’s coworkers—a man named Tim, who is leaving the embassy tomorrow, and two others who are buying chips, beer, and soda for Tim’s going away party.

Terese and I keep walking through the hallways. We pass a post office, an ATM where I withdraw some rubles, a swimming pool, and a basketball court. We get a key made for me at the key shop, then go back toward the gift shop. There’s also a beauty salon, a video rental store, and a cafeteria further down. Basically, everything anyone could ask for is conveniently located here, albeit usually for an inconvenient price.

We come across a few Marines coming upstairs, fresh from a volleyball game. One is Chad, Dad and Terese’s “adopted” son. All the Marines stationed here are matched up with volunteer adopted parents. Chad seems nice enough, looks young, and is from Kentucky. We’re all three basically asleep on our feet, so the conversation doesn’t last long.

We stop in at the gift shop to look around. The man behind the counter is Armenian. Terese tells him I’ve just graduated college, and he asks how long that takes in America.

“Usually four years,” I say. “But it took me eight.”

He’s confused, so we explain I took some time off. Over here they can only take a year off, but the education is government-funded. Terese tells him about Grandmother’s graduation at age eighty-nine and he exclaims, bewildered, “Why?!”

An hour or so later we go to Terese’s office for the going away party. I meet several of her bosses and coworkers, but can’t focus on anything other than how very “Office Space” it all is. Having worked in restaurants so long, I usually think the warm sodas and bags of pretzels and Oreos at office parties are just a stereotype. But it’s all real, except here there’s warm beer as well. I sip on my flat Pepsi in a paper cup and sample the Russian chocolates and try to remember everyone’s names. Most of the people have heard about Grandmother’s graduation or read the article from the Tech newspaper. They’re all very impressed. One of the bosses says, “Welcome to Moscow,” bringing my count up to two. Terese claims she said it last night, so I count that as well and bump my total up to three.

Dad gets off work and we all go down to Uncle Sam’s, the bar on the embassy compound. It’s a nice enough place and we can order dinner. Half the crowd is carrying around rocks glasses filled with a blue punch-like drink they call a Dozer. As I understand it, the Dozer is mainly Blue Curacao, vodka, and sweet and sour. I take mental notes in case I want to make it for any of my customers back home.

Most of the people in the bar are Americans, and their whole families come out, babies and all. I meet a handful of different embassy employees: coworkers, bosses, friends. They’re all fascinating characters.

The first Mike works with security, calls Dad “Dwight” and Terese “Tresa,” and they tease him about needing to eat more vegetables and swim more often. Mike carries a card that reads “bullshit” around in his back pocket to hold over the heads of others as he sees fit. He carries around a can of Coke, a glass of ice, and a shot of rum in a separate glass. I’m not sure if everyone mixes his own drinks here or if it’s just Mike’s personal preference. Dad leans over and says Mike’s a regular here at the bar—too regular, in fact. It’s an unnecessary comment. Mike’s face and mannerisms have already betrayed him. He gets a sudden idea that we all need to visit Gorky Park on Wednesday evening and makes a big show of writing out the plans on a piece of paper, topped with DTRM. It looks like code, but it’s not, he points out. It’s our names: Dwight, Tresa, Rebecca, and Mike.

The second Mike is Dad’s boss. He’s young, probably only a few years older than I am. He’s cute, has a beautiful wife, and a nice sense of humor. He seems very comfortable with himself and at ease with the world, as if he could be in either Russia or America or even Antarctica and be content. His only flaw, as far as I can see, is he’s an Aggie. He tells me he graduated from A&M, nicely, as if that means we have something in common, both being from Texas. Instead, my brainwashed anti-Aggie upbringing prompts me to reply, “I’m sorry.” He does a double-take and I feel a little guilty, but it’s soon forgotten. Later, Mike tells me to be careful. Russian boys, he says, see a smile from a woman and take it as an invitation to hit on her. I wonder how that’s any different from American boys.

Phil is Terese’s boss. He looks like Tim Robbins and has a voice like Jeff Bridges. Somehow I end up telling him and another guy about the Acts Organization. They’re very encouraging. It also segues into my testimony and ends with Phil repeatedly patting Dad’s shoulder and shaking his hand and insisting Dad recognize that he has a great daughter. I’d be flattered, but all the compliments are soon followed by Phil’s refusing another drink and insisting he’s already a little intoxicated and should probably head home.

I keep staring behind the bar where several of the patrons go and pour their own beers if the bartender is too busy. Apparently it’s a fairly common occurrence. I wonder what it would be like if my customers at work came back and helped me pour beers. This bartender, a meek man named Fred from Nigeria, must be more trusting than I am. Then again, he is serving to a room full of people with either Secret or Top Secret clearance, so they’re all probably trustworthy.

Dad and I go back to the apartment. He says he wants to go to bed early, which seems to typically mean after midnight. I think going to bed early means 8:00 and anything after 10:30 is past my bedtime.

I go to sleep relatively early but wake up in the night with jet lag insomnia, unable to sleep. I lie awake converting dollars to rubles in my head in preparation for bazaar shopping tomorrow. 1000 rubles is 40 dollars. 500 rubles is 20 dollars. 1500 rubles is 60 dollars. 3000 rubles is 120 dollars. The keychains we bought yesterday at 30 rubles each were just over a dollar apiece—not a bad price, apparently. At some point I finally fall asleep for a few more hours until morning.

Waiting in line at the airport check-in in Lubbock, Terese tells me she and Dad had been hoping for thunderstorms last night. She says they miss the thunder and lightning. I glance outside—overcast skies, darkening by the minute.

“Looks like you might get your wish,” I say.

“Well, I don’t want it now,” she says.

The clouds hold out for a while. Walking back to my chair in the terminal, lightning flashes through the sky, thunder shakes the row of seats, and the sky opens up—five minutes before boarding—sending down sheets of rain and pea-sized hail. We board and I stare outside, watching the drops of rain racing down the acrylic windows while we wait to take off. Our biggest concern is flight delays and the possibility of missing our connecting flight in Amsterdam. We take off late, and the flight is relatively uneventful, except for a stewardess whose accent changes over the course of her monologue and turbulence so nauseating I feel I’m on a rollercoaster. Luckily, Dad is prepared with Dramamine.

Somehow we arrive in Houston without crashing or vomiting. We have just enough time to cross to the complete other side of the airport, take a bathroom break, and eat a slice of pizza before boarding. The ten-hour flight to Amsterdam consists of watching a House mini-marathon and tossing and turning, trying unsuccessfully to sleep. We hit some turbulence several times—worse than Dad and Terese usually experience and worse than I was expecting. But the food is good, I have a window seat, and we make it to Amsterdam in one piece.

In Amsterdam we have no time to do any shopping, which is tragic because the airport is spectacular and filled with little shops and duty-free stores at every turn. We end up hiking across the entire airport only to discover we’d actually entered exactly where we’d needed to be, so we turn around and go all the way back. Somehow we manage to get seats together on the plane. It reminds me of the Croatian airline we took back in 2003—same design and color scheme. Even the stewardesses look the same. Finally, the traveling fatigue gets to me and I doze off for most of the flight.

After a slightly bumping landing, we coast to a stop and the rest of the passengers on the plane applaud loudly and happily. Dad turns to me and says, “That’s what vodka will do to you.” I hope he means the passengers’ applause and not the pilot’s landing, but one can never be sure. He tells me to count how many times people tell me, “Welcome to Moscow.” The stewardess says it over the loudspeaker as we’re pulling in. That’s one.

Dad warns me that no one follows rules in Russia and, for the most part, no one cares. Even getting off the plane, the others jump out of their seats and begin gathering their things while the plane is still taxiing to a stop. The stewardess looks on, unfazed and apathetic, a far cry from the Lubbock stewardess who got an attitude with a woman for not stowing her notebook under the seat during landing.

We enter the Moscow airport and wait in line to go through passport control. Usually Dad and Terese can go through the special line for diplomats and avoid most of the waiting, but there’s no one in the diplomat booth at the moment. Thus, I have plenty of time to absorb the décor of the airport, which is really just a lot of dreary gray and not much else. I expect things to look a little more modern once we enter the main airport, but that doesn’t happen. Everything is drab like a warehouse, and I have a constant feeling of being behind the scenes, as if we’ve just snuck through a set of doors marked “Employees Only” and are seeing the airport from the storeroom. We’re only able to recover five out of six of our bags, as the last one is lost. One of my bags has had the lock cut completely off, and the other one is damaged but still has a lock. I can’t complain much, though. At least both of my bags made it.

We notice a decorative broom lying alongside the other luggage. Someone has checked it, oddly enough. It’s made out of straw and has a scarecrow of sorts across the bristles. I get out my camera to take a picture as it comes around again, but a young blonde girl runs up and snatches it before I can get a photo.

A man is walking around in the airport smoking, fifteen feet from a giant no smoking sign. No one follows the rules, no one cares. Then again, one of the first things I notice upon our arrival is all the Russians smoke. And they wear skinny jeans.

Terese and I go out to meet our driver, Sergei, while Dad deals with the lost luggage situation. We make a stop in the bathroom. It’s the equivalent of the dirtiest Allsup’s bathroom I’ve ever seen, only with two stalls.

I get some rubles from Terese and go in search of water and Coke. There’s a small bar in the airport, and the vender behind the counter is no-nonsense, as if she’s just come off a twelve-hour shift. And maybe she has, or maybe she just doesn’t like Americans, but she looks at me expectantly and says something in Russian, which always somehow comes out sounding mean. I say “Sprite”—having already said it twice, but been ignored—“Coke,” and “Water.” I also point to be sure I’m understood. She grabs them, sets them on the counter, touches a few keys, and 260.00 comes up on the screen. I’m thinking that can’t be right and wondering if she hit a Silly American button that added an extra charge. She grabs a green dish and slides it toward me expectantly. “Um…I don’t know…” I’m stammering. A girl waiting next to me tries to help me out.

“It’s 260 rubles,” she says. I count and recount what Terese has given me: 180 rubles. I look up at the vender. She’s scowling at me and I’m actually embarrassed.

“Uh, okay, hang on,” I say. I go back to Terese, tell her it’s 260, and she says that’s probably right. I feel like fainting. Granted, it only converts to about ten dollars and things are more expensive in airports, but the number “260” seems so incredibly high I still can’t wrap my head around it.

Terese gives me more money and I return to the vender who completely ignores me while two other people push in front of me. My turn comes and she asks me something in Russian. It’s something like, “Do you want the same drinks?” or “Do you finally have enough money now?” or “Are you a complete moron?” and either way, the answer is “yes,” so I nod. This time I’m ready for the money dish. I put the 260 rubles in the dish, she picks it up, counts it, looks at me, and smiles as if she’s proud of me. I take my drinks and return to Terese and Sergei happily, proud that I made a vender smile. Terese is impressed too, and I think I’m totally in—that is, of course, until I open my water and find something terrible inside. It’s like water, only carbonated and disturbing. I nearly gag.

“Oh yeah,” Terese says. “I forgot to tell you to say ‘no gas’ when you order water.”

Crap.

She tells me people don’t like to touch hands if at all possible, hence the money dish by the register.

Dad arrives and Sergei goes to get the car while we wait outside. Like a bad cliché, I can already smell the vodka seeping from the pores of a man standing ten feet away and I think, “Well, this is Russia.” We load the van and take off. Everything Dad and Terese have told me about the traffic proves to be true. Sergei—and us along with him—whips in and out of lanes, sometimes driving on the dirt shoulder in order to pass. All the cars weave in and out like the rain running down the windows of the airplane the day before. The drops of cars join lanes, separate, cut others off, bob and weave, play Pacman in between some lanes and off the road, creating their own lanes, criss-crossing their ways down the highway. Sometimes we’re so close to other cars I could literally reach out and touch them if I’d open my window. Finally I understand why European and Asian cars look so smashed in and compact; they can fit three cars in the space we’d normally fit one American car.

A man in a uniform is standing in the center of the six-lane highway. He points at a van and it quickly pulls over. Dad explains how the man points at cars and makes them stop.

“Then you pay him your fine,” he says.

“For what?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

I figure if the traffic cop is brave enough to stand in the middle of the highway with the traffic the way it is, he deserves some sort of payment. Probably, though, American police are slightly more effective.

We live through the traffic and finally arrive at the embassy after about twenty-four hours in transit. I surrender my passport and get a visitor’s badge for the night. We get to the apartment and I expect us to all instantly fall asleep. No, apparently neither Dad nor Terese needs adequate sleep to function. I’m so exhausted I’m dizzy and nauseous, but Dad’s content to spend some time on his computer and Terese isn’t going to bed until she finishes watching CSI. Not me. I fall asleep instantly and stay that way for the next thirteen hours.