It was not the bad breakfast food that was so appalling… just the heaps of it on the table in the kitchen smelling of food cooked two weeks ago. The sheer energy it took to eat Mrs. Natalya’s cooking as she stood there observing every bite that went into our mouths wore us out. Were we supposed to eat everything or should we just leave most of it there for the family? I tried to eat enough not to be ill-mannered, but I had enough of some kind of candy bar, the leathery crepes like jerky, the dry eggs and rolls that had they fallen on my foot would have broken a toe. Was that chocolate yogurt?? What an imagination Mrs. Natalya must have had for things she thought we would like to eat!

…and then there was poor Boris, Mrs. Natalya’s and Mr. Dmitri’s son. Boris’ job was to keep the tourists company at breakfast…share Russian culture. There was, of course, an ulterior motive. He had to sit there and practice English. How did Jay and I know this? We had taught English. All the questions were standard, “Do you like Russian food? Have you ever been to Russia?” Mrs. Natalya stood over us listening to every syllable. “What do you think of my son’s English?” We gave the standard answer, “Your son’s English is very good.” We practiced English with Boris for the odd hour. Why not? We could tell he really hated this hour that he had to spend with us. Poor Boris… but Mrs. Natalya was insistent! Boris spent most of his time complaining about his family. A computer geek, he had to fix all the computers of his parents’ friends and on and on.

Boris had collected us from our hotel the day before to take us to our “budget home stay.” He took one look at us and completely distanced himself on the Moscow subway… after all we looked like refugees who the Chinese Peoples’ Liberation Army had taken pity on… Jay and I with our Chinese army coats that were a more than a bit bizarre in this new Moscow. Jay had almost two weeks’ worth of beard and I wore a bizarre black hat and ugly boots. We probably stunk to high heaven, too. After all, I had not changed my clothes since I had left Beijing… and Jay? God knows when he had washed last. Who would want to be seen with us… especially a painfully shy, complaining teenager whose mother made him come to get us?

From the subway station we walked to the old apartment building we had chosen because it was so close to the Kremlin and the Arbat. We were buzzed through heavy, pre-revolutionary doors with a hundred coats of chipped, gray paint and came face-to-face with the lift. Did people move furniture up and down in that thing? It had a dull industrial look that screamed of musty cardboard boxes loaded to the ceiling and worn, third-hand sofas upended in the corners. I got into the cage with the folding door that barely closed, stepped on the warped plywood floor that undulated under my feet. The lift tediously creaked up the six floors. I could imagine the basement ever more in the distance. I held my breath.

Natalya showed us to our “room” – one huge room, the family’s living room. It had that same look as Jack Reed’s room as conceived by Warren Beatty. But it surely didn’t have the same feel…definitely I was not living Reds. There was no Louise Bryant in elegant, turn of-the-century clothing or the caustic wit of Emma Goldman. Instead there were two of what I can only describe as “chesterfields,” so ancient were they. They were covered with leopard polyester throws and were made up with the long gone psychedelic sheets I had bought for my first apartment many long years before. The walls were covered with flocked, brown wallpaper with a flowered border. Radiators hissed like hidden snakes in the woodwork. The room had a grimy look as if it had missed many spring cleanings. The carpet? I wouldn’t be putting my bare feet in the tangeled fuzz that had peeled up from the matte.

I said, “Jay, I don’t think I can stay here. Three whole days of this! I think I want to check into the Ukraina.” He just laughed and said, “Paula, this is awesome.” Twenty-two and a former Eagle Scout… I could tell that if I wanted the Ukraina, I’d have to go there by myself. I went in search of the family’s W.C. I closed the door self-consciously… clutter everywhere and wet clothes hanging in the dreary bathtub. There would be no shower tonight. I came back out into the hall. The “family home stay people” were tidily locked up in their “quarters” for the night. I stood on the once beautiful parquet floor in the large foyer with its stately high ceilings. I surveyed all the junk on the floor… shoes… dust. What did this all remind me of? I went back into “our quarters” and collapsed on the chesterfield and laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. I remembered. I was in a bad foster home. All those years in child welfare… the Mrs. Smiths and the Mrs. Joneses… all those eccentric families that I had no choice but to place kids in! Jay laughed with me… after all, it was he who was reveling in the experience.

Mr. Dmitri finally appeared one day at breakfast. Boris introduced us to his father who worked as an engineer in a hydro-electric plant. I told him that it was nice to meet him. He laughed hysterically, turned on his heel and left. Perhaps I should have been insulted, but, once again, I retired to the chesterfield, stuffed my fist in my mouth and laughed until I cried.

The train would be leaving after midnight. The time had come for the long-awaited shower. The clothes in the bathroom had never come down. I made an appointment with Mrs. Natalya. Someone, probably Boris, had removed the clothes. I went first. I reveled in my own cleanliness and indulged myself in clean clothes.

We said goodbye to our budget home stay family. We were happy to say goodbye to them. They were happy to say goodbye to us. They knew we were happy. We knew that they were happy… and we all knew that we knew each other was happy.

Dosvidanya…Vcevo xoroshevo!