In which "Good-bye" proves surprisingly difficult to say.
Exactly one month ago today, Robin and I first stepped out of the oven and into the ice box. We can remember rationing our Oreos and episodes of C.S.I. and counting the days until we would see daylight.
Imagine our surprise on this, the last night in the cottage, when we reflect on all of the things we'll miss when we leave tomorrow.
First and foremost will be the people. It's funny that we travel to the far side of the world to meet Adrienne Connolly and Peace Corps Bryan, both of whom went to college where I did at K.U. Coincidence aside, we've bonded as strangers in a strange land with all of the Americans who have called Kokshetau home these past weeks, whether they be adoptive parents or young men doing good deeds.
But the Americans weren't the only people to whom we've grown attached. Inna joined our going away dinner last night and helped us buy the tchassliki for our going away dinner tonight. (If we've demonstrated nothing else, the Kazakhstani have learned that the Americans know how to celebrate a good-bye!) Barely more than a girl, Inna has one of the best jobs in the city and worries that she's too old to marry. She walks with a grace that the Americans struggle to imitate and translates legal and medical terms with a professionalism that staggers.
Similarly, Oleg and Lyuba have taught us a thing or two about being professional. Although neither speaks English, both greet us with smiles and a warmth that erases the language barrier. They cluck over our comfort and shake fingers at missing hats or gloves. We told Oleg there was no one to take such good care of us when we went back to the States. We gave Lyuba a photo of herself holding Owen and didn't notice when she shed a tear.
They warn you before you come to Kazakhstan that it won't be a vacation. And, I'll admit, the beaches here stink. Still, we've enjoyed a sense of adventure reminiscent of those first days on your own in the early years of college. Many moons have passed since we last spent hours shooting the breeze on haphazard furniture in small apartments or made experimental dinners based on Ramen Noodles.
Most of all, though, there's the sense of being part of something big on the verge of happening. Our little boy comes from a country that still wrestles beneath the thumbprint of the Soviet Union. Huge pipes crisscross the city bearing heat and, on the good days, hot water to the houses and apartment building that line the streets. The people here never know when it will be warm or when it will be cold.
The architecture belies the uniformity that was the foundation of communism. Despite a simple and small gridwork of streets, we found ourselves lost again and again as every building and landmark looked like every other building and landmark. The facades crumble as the cement wears away and wires stand exposed in hallways.
Rumors of corruption and crime are whispered and used to scurry Americans back into their rooms and out of the public eye.
But beneath all that, you can see a new spirit taking shape. The tchassliki restaurant Inna took us to last night used to be an empty apartment complex. Inna knows the owner. Two years ago he asked his friends if he should open a restaurant or an Internet cafe. Last night he had sold out of shish kebabs by 8 p.m. Every table was full and more people were crowding in as we left.
Likewise, pushing up through the concrete like new spring buds, you see houses two and three stories high with insulated windows, hot water heaters and charming wood siding or actual brick. The people in them remain suspicious, sure, but they speak proudly of their president and have high hopes for his vision of the future.
There are still things we haven't yet done. We never made it to Romeo and Juiet and we never saw the English Center or visited one of the remote villages. We never danced at the discotheque or even during lunch.
But there are so many things we did do.
We toasted each other with vodka and strangely peach flavored champagne and then blew wishes into the empty bottles.
We challenged one another to "Rush-offs" to see who could speak the most broken Russian (Adrienne won, hands down. Ryan Giordano was disqualified for blatantly showing off.)
We told jokes that didn't cross the cultural barrier but we laughed anyway.
We snuck out after curfew like naughty teenagers.
We snapped pictures in the Tsum store like the worst kind of tourists.
And we gaped in good-natured humor at Peace Corps Bryan's romantic misadventures.
Yes, there will be a lot to miss in the city that gave us our son. As we sit on our final evening here, watching the heavy flakes of snow falling outside, we can't help but think one thing:
That snow better not hold up the plane tomorrow.
