ROSE - Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia - page 2

And yet neither Rose nor I could escape feeling this naive confusion about Russia, as
if we were missing something. The summits we saw on television as kids, with Ronald
Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev—weren't they setting Russia on a path to becoming a
Western democracy and true American ally? Why hasn't Russia gotten there? Isn't that
what Russians want their country to be?
We talked about the risk of moving to a new country, especially one known for being
cold and unwelcoming. And Rose was quick to remind me of the risks. She's not a woman
who holds much back or shies away from debate. (Her Lebanese-Sicilian good looks may
have gotten her into beauty pageants in high school, but the event she always won was the
interview.)
“Okay, so let's get this straight here,” she said in one of our many conversations, sitting
in our tiny Manhattan apartment. “We moved to New York for my job a year ago. Now
you're asking me to leave my new job, move to Russia, be cold for several years, and live
in a country that may not even give me a visa to work?”
I felt she captured things pretty well. “Yes?”
“I like the idea of an adventure . . . especially before we have kids. But Greene? You
understand you're going to owe me.”
The decision wasn't easy, and the two of us talk to this day about what might have been
different had we turned Russia down. In the end it may have been our curiosity that won
out. Rose put it best: “I don't know a damn thing about Russia, except for its food and
culture. But I . . . I have always thought that seeing a new place, experiencing it, learning
about it as a couple—together—could be a fun adventure, and who knows if we'll ever get
this chance again?”
After walking off the plane, through a bitterly cold jetway that did nothing for marital
peace, Rose and I were hit in the face by Russia. Russians, as it turns out, don't like lining
up for anything. It may come from a sympathetic place: During Soviet times the difference
between being first or sixth in line at a poorly stocked store could be the difference between
your family having bread on the table that night, or not. Lines became free-for-alls.
But I would love for someone to explain to me why this practice must endure at the im-
migration line at Moscow's Sheremetyevo International Airport. Rose and I were bumped
rudely, trampled on, yelled at in Russian, pushed aside, and frowned at until we just decided
to let the whole horde of Russian passengers go ahead of us. Then we calmly walked up
to the Russian immigration officer, a scowling woman dressed in a pale blue government
uniform.
“Iz N'iu Iorka?” she seemed to grumble. We assumed it was Russian for “From New
York?”
“Yes,” I said.