Ah yes….it happened again. Although this time my heart didn’t skip a beat–it was too tired. My travel-weary body woke from a deep sleep at 1:40 a.m. this morning. “Where the heck am I and why are flannel sheets on the bed?” It was a moment of confusion. I really wasn’t sure where I was – until I heard the soothing sounds of Maggie snoring. Yes, that’s right. Listening to my 12 year old dog snooze away on her therapeutic mattress bed made me realize I was home in Russia, thus the flannel sheets. Between the quiet gurgling of the humidifers and Maggie’s yoga breathing, I was lulled back to sleep. Being the first day back, there were things to unpack, Christmas decorations to put away, groceries to buy … and jet lag is not my friend. It drags me down and makes me nauseous. As I get older it takes longer for me to bounce back. But today, I tackled it head-on and went outside in the -9 F (“feels like -20F”) weather to explore the forest on snowshoes. The dry, cold air and the crunch of the snow beneath my feet is all I needed to overcome the weariness. Mother Nature and frigid cold – it’ll cure what ails ya!
My heart just skipped a beat because I forgot which airport I was in for the moment. As I snapped photos from the Star Alliance lounge and tried to think of a caption, I seriously couldn’t recall if I was at Seoul Incheon or at LAX International. Not good Missy. Not good. I guess that’s what happens when you fly as often as I do. Although my college friend Laurie Wills Fitzgerald is the Queen of travel – it seems every week she is in a different exotic location. But I guess I’m racking up those miles too – thus the lounge.
Tonight I am chillaxing in the Star Alliance Lounge at LAX International Terminal. It’s extra special because my brother in law David Woo was one of the architects who designed this masterpiece. It is stunning. There is a giant wall of videos that rotate between calming ocean waves, surfers, birds on the beach, starry nights, black and white stills from Hollywood’s heyday–it’s so relaxing. Isn’t that what air travel SHOULD be? LAX got this one right, that’s for sure. Then of course, as in any International Terminal, you have the shops. Not just any shops—we are in LA after all. Burberry, Gucci, Boss, Armani, Michael Kors, Hermes, Chanel and…Victoria Secret. Plus numerous Duty Free shops for liquor, perfume and all sorts of other “stuff”.
I prefer to stay up here and look at the people milling around. Although I do have a 13 hour flight to Seoul in about 2 hours so I suppose I should get my booty outta this chair and do some walking around. Hmmm – perhaps I should scope out some of those shops after all. What should it be? Burberry? Gucci? Michael Kors? Victoria Secret? The most votes win! Ready – set – go! More blogs to come…see ya in Seoul.
It only takes a song to take me back – Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song. Some random kids’ chorus from the 1960’s singing the Drummer Boy—that orange tattered well-loved album I had to hear every Christmas season. (You know what I am talking about Bichl siblings) Here I am five decades later and I still so vividly recall my childhood memories. We had it good. A simple life with simple pleasures: playing outside with the neighborhood kids until we heard that brass dinner bell ringing for us to come home, Dad creating a skating rink on our back patio, donning someone’s dance recital costume and tap dancing on the slate, sidewalks – the ones stamped with a “W” in the corner, picking the red berries from the bushes and smashing them into a stew, making popcorn with our upside down bikes and the driveway cinders, (who came up with this idea anyway?) – so many memories.
No doubt it was our upbringing that influenced us and made us who we are today. The traditions we built upon and the memories we made for our own kids. And now – for my older siblings – their own “children” who are starting new Christmas traditions with their own family. The cycle continues. It all started with Mom and Dad. Betty and Ken. The handsome bespectacled broadcaster and his bun wearing beauty Betty.
We were a large family back in the day. 6 kids – Kenny, Cathy, Jacquie, Jim, Lisa and Missy. Everyone was about 2 years apart – until me. We were siblings and friends – although at some point that friendship thing probably went by the wayside. Sharing a room with an annoying baby sister probably isn’t much fun. Now as middle-aged folks ensconced in the AARP world, we are still friends. No matter the distance. No matter the lack of emails and phone calls – we can still pick up like we’re in the backyard or on the front porch of Morrison Avenue, or Lakewood Heights.
Sitting around a creaky wood table. All of us. Mom and Dad at either end. “No thank you helpings” for food we didn’t like – creamed corn. Peas. Salmon croquettes. Liver and onions. Coconut cream pie. Stewed tomatoes – yes, Mom there were a few. But you taught us well. Must have a “no thank you helping” before we can leave the table. Not sure which of my sneaky siblings thought up the cough and ditch, taking a bite of the unwelcomed food and carefully spitting it into the paper napkin, then discreetly stashing the nasty package on the ledge underneath the table. It makes me gag just to think about how much masticated food must have been stored beneath that old table.
In my family, dessert was a daily occurrence, something that carries on to this day by one of my siblings. (Isn’t that right Cathy?) Chocolate pudding, rainbow layered Dream Whip, Pepperidge Farm fruit turnovers, Jello, Ice cream. It was such a treat to end our family meal together with some highly sought after dessert. If there was an extra – we’d “horsengoggle” for the treat. “Einze, Vie, Drie, Horsengoggle” – we’d say it all together and each of us would hold out fingers on one hand. Dad would then count the fingers and starting somewhere, he’d count off each of us kids and the person whom he landed on, got the last dessert. I have no earthly idea if the “horsengoggle” thing was made up by my creative, silly limerick-writing Dad or if indeed we came upon a secret German tradition. Our last name was German you see – Bichl – “there’s even a town in Germany named after us” was something we often heard from our relatives. That was always such a “joy”, having people mispronounce your name – “Missy Bitchel. Missy Bikelle. Missy Beikelle” Oh the number of times I’d have to correct them. (And now I get Stroogis instead of Sturgis. Sigh)
Decorating the tree as a family was a big deal and oh my – if you didn’t apply the tinsel properly, our tinsel captain would let us know. “Don’t just throw it in clumps, lay it one strand at a time”. Really? One strand at a time in a package of 250? It was more fun to watch Patches the devil cat play with the strands or to take a piece and rub it across the top of your lip, creating a slight grey “Mustache” – and a burning sensation—but it was fun! Yeah I was weird.
After our Christmas Eve dinner – I don’t remember what we ate – dessert would often be Christmas Tree shaped ice creams Dad got from the store. Such a treat! When we were old enough, we would go to Midnight Mass. The altar of St. Mark’s would be festooned with scads of poinsettias and two large giant Christmas trees, all shiny and shimmery with ornaments and —- tinsel. The men’s choir in their maroon robes would entertain us all, sometimes in tune, other times well….but it made a memory .
One of us would leave cookies out for the jolly old elf in the family Santa mug and of course a carrot for Rudolph. A carefully crafted note would be written and left by the fireplace where our safety- pinned knee socks hung with care. All of us Bichl kids would go to bed and Mom and Dad would tape a sheet around all the doorways so none of us could see the tree if we snuck down to see Santa.
Christmas morning was magical – we came down in our PJs, walked through the kitchen and sat around the creaky wood table where we’d eat a special Christmas breakfast of cheese soufflé and Mom’s stollen, a traditional Christmas bread in the shape of a tree with green icing! Usually Dad would sneak through the “curtain of cover” and retrieve our filled socks, bringing them to the table for us to open and enjoy the treasures- gold wrapped chocolate coins, packets of tissues, a new pen, mini notebook, rose scented hand lotion and other random items.
Once we finished with our breakfast and opening our stockings, Mom and Dad would stand on either side of the archway and on the count of 3, they would tear down the taped sheet revealing a tree packed with presents. I will never forget the sight of my purple Huffy with the flower power banana seat bike. The Baby Magic doll that opened her eyes with the wave of a magnetic wand. Oh the memories.
I’ve tried to instill some Christmas traditions with my own children and I can only hope they too will one day look back on their Christmas memories with joy- with the warm fuzzy feelings that can carry you through the tough times. When you miss your family – near and far. When you get that lump in your throat just thinking about everyone around a table, and you’re not there. It just takes a song – one simple melody to carry you back on a journey to childhood and to help you remember you will always be part of the memories – no matter the distance.
Smelly Fish, Seat Belts and a Smile
Thanksgiving Day Nov 28, 2013
It’s Thanksgiving Day today but from where I am standing, it’s just November 28. I’m in a small airport in Russia – Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk (UUS) but for the few other American expats on their way home, no one here knows the meaning of this special day - the gathering of loving family around a long creaky table, loaded with platters of casseroles, bowls of whipped up wonder and “the bird.” My memories of Thanksgivings with my family growing up and those with my own children are what keep me going on this day so far from home.
This airport is filled with large groups of chatty Korean tourists on their own journey home. We only have 2 check-in counters and lucky me I’m standing next to carry on bags filled with far too many dried smelt-the local delicacy on the island. Truly. There’s nothing like the smell of dried, preserved fish in a crowded, airless space to set the tone for a long flight home. As the trainee behind the check-in counter triple scans our passports, my thoughts wander to who will sit next to me for the next 4 hours.
I stroll down to Row 16 and there she is – a sweet elderly Korean woman with her purple plaid backpack. She struggles to put it under her seat and I offer to help. Then – I smell it. My seatmate is carrying stinky smelt. Heaven help me. I want to gag.
Her face is lined with deep crevices and her tiny eyes are moist as she looks quizzically at the metal contraption across her lap. She holds the seat belt in her hand and isn’t sure what to do. I fly so often, I take it for granted and here this woman doesn’t seem to know how to use a seat belt. She attempts to insert the end under the metal flap and then she turns it upside down and tries again. I sense her frustration and offer to help. I don’t speak Korean so I use nothing but facial expressions and gestures and she gladly accepts. She seems so happy!
It appears my “teachable moment” has endeared me to this traveler and her friends, for now there are 3 tiny Korean woman gathered in the aisle next to me chatting and pointing at me. Is it my curly hair? My height? I try to make myself small and shrink into my seat as they compare filling out customs cards and continue to nod their heads at me and smile.
I must have crossed a Korean friendship boundary for now it seems I have a new friend. She casually puts her snack litter on my table tray, not wanting to clutter her own. Her arm reaches across me, grazing my glasses as she holds her plastic cup out in the aisle for more wine. I could get agitated, but I breathe. I am going home.
The flight attendants come down the aisle with the 100# food cart, effortlessly pushing it as they collect our food trays. Again, my new friend reaches across me with her arm, holding her tray of partially eaten seafood medley and sticky rice in front of my face. She wants to be the first to give her tray to the flight attendant. I didn’t know it was a race. As she leans in across me, her small can of Sprite topples and sprays a bit of the sugary substance onto my jeans. I could get pissed. But I don’t. I breathe. I get to hug my children soon.
In many parts of Russia and Asian countries, you cannot flush toilet paper due to the poor sewage systems. Signs are posted on the stalls and an open wastebasket is set next to the toilet – in plain view so you know what to do. (Yes it IS disgusting). But on an airline like Asiana it would seem people should know what to do. Not so. I traipse down the aisle to the lavatory and close the metal door, turning the latch for some semblance of privacy. Then – I look down. The floor is very wet and I shiver to think what the dampness is from. A crushed paper cup lays on the floor nowhere near the trash receptacle and pieces of paper towel and — shudder – toilet paper are wadded in the corner. Really? Does culture trump common courtesy? I start to seethe – but I hold my breath (I breathe later). I’m going home.
As I walk back to row 16 I scuff the soles of my boots on the runway of grey carpet that lines the aisle. And there again is the Korean crew of tourists chatting and laughing in my aisle. I smile and gesture that I’d like my seat back and they comply.
Flying is certainly interesting nowadays. If you commit to this spirit of adventure and try not to get wound up over every little thing – if you remember to breathe – it works.
You see, I’m a Mom. That’s what keeps me going during these 21 hours of transit. I’m hugging my children in a matter of hours—my grown children – kids who may no longer need me but still want to see me and spend time together. These are the people, who with my husband and our extended family throughout the USA keep me counting my blessings every day. And today, thanks to a 21-hour flight across the International Date Line I’m given 2 Thanksgiving Days! How blessed am I?
It only took an elderly Korean woman who needed to fasten her seat belt to remind me how blessed I truly am.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
Today was the day. It finally happened. I’m not sure it really hit me until I get a text from the birthday girl stating “I’m old”. Yep— our youngest Sturgis child is now 20. Twenty. TWENTY. Sheesh….hold on a moment. The blue eyed wonder boy is 251/2 (almost) and his sibling is no longer a teen. Those parents who are near to my age….we all know we are just holding time at a standstill right? We aren’t getting any older-right? Yet somehow my children took a fast track to adulthod. My mischievous son who safety-pinned gummy worms to his undershirt and “stained” it with fake blood so he could morph into a zombie for the Cub Scout Halloween party (and this was waaaaay before zombies were cool). Or the Halloween when he wore a Grim Reaper costume, face totally covered, staying silent and “in character” the entire evening. Nary a “Trick or Treat” was uttered. Then there’s the birthday girl – the 20 year-old college coed who donned a rabbit costume when she was just a week past her first birthday and bucketed tears as her Pirate brother sat next to her, “blood” dripping on his shirt and a smug smirk of satisfaction across that adorable face. Perhaps that was the start of the “Poopy Heady” phase – thus Jenn’s tears (terms of “endearment” between siblings – that’s for another blog). They grew up. So fast.
They are busy with their own lives now – one has started a good career and the other is in college and here I am – a “trailing spouse” rounding up our 1st year on this empty nest adventure. It’s certainly everything I thought it would be: Making new friends. Adapting. Learning how to cook without crucial ingredients. Adapting. Socializing over campfires. Adapting. Finding the beauty in simple things – like pops of color on a crumbling, grey-concrete Soviet block-style building…a scarlet punching bag hanging off a broken balcony..a turquoise dome on a Russian Orthodox church across the street. Butchering the language. Adapting. Isn’t that what life is all about? Adapting to whatever you are handed?
It’s nearing the holidays now and it’s the time of year when I miss having roots and being near my family: my parents, my siblings and extended family – but it’s okay. I’m okay. Been there. Done that too many times to count.
I will be home in Texas in a matter of weeks (5 to be exact) and I am anxious. Don’t get me wrong – Yuzhno is a wonderful place to live but after a while I need to get off the island. And that my friends isn’t always easy. Mother nature can play some nasty tricks with flying on and off an island, as evidenced by the Icelandic volcano which chose to spew ash when a friend stayed with us in London. She was frantic to get home but air traffic was at a standstill for over a week. Over here–on Sakhalin Island — high winds, torrential rain and blizzards make for interesting travel planning. Ah yes. Life on an island can be daunting. Yet-I make the best of it. I adapt.
It happened again. I took my youngest to college — for her 2nd year. Her SECOND YEAR. Excuse me? Didn’t she just bridge over from Daisy Scouts to Brownies. (Insert sigh here.)
I’m in people-watch mode now. Heading back to Russia to see my hubby and dog–I’m anxious. It seems I’ve become one of those travelers who now knows her way around, which security line to stand in, the people to avoid. I’m not quite George Clooney in “Up in the Air” but I’m close.
It’s 3 p.m. and I sit in the airport lounge with Carrie blasting my ear buds as I try to ignore the screeching middle aged ladies behind me (who’ve had too much to drink already.) “I got 15 hits on my Facebook page with that photo of me”…. oh.my.word.
This place is a character study. The 30-something guy next to me nurses his Shiner Bock while his legs jump up and down beneath the table. It is taking all my restraint not to reach over and put my hands on his knees. Too much caffeine? ADHD? Anxious to fly?
The middle age guy with the laptop askew on his lap, juggles typing while sipping his Scotch, his glass balanced on the armrest. I’m holding my breath, waiting for the amber colored liquid to cascade down over the keyboard.
There’s a young mother with an infant in a stroller and she feels comfortable enough (or she’s crazy enough) to leave the baby while she peruses the snack counter and freshens up in the restroom. She seems to be gone for quite a while and it’s making me nervous. The guy sitting across from me shoots me a quizzical glance, then shakes his head. I find myself watching her baby as if I am the nanny. I don’t dare leave my seat until she comes back.
I keep checking my watch, trying to make sure I don’t miss my boarding time but the hands don’t seem to be moving much. It’s just a few minutes since the last time I looked. Apparently I am ready to go, to get on the plane and start my journey to my other home. Sitting here in this sea of frequent fliers does nothing to keep me occupied. The stacks of magazines in my tote bag, the numerous titles on my Kindle–they all wait for me. I guess I am saving those for the 19+ hour flight back to Russia. In the meantime, I guess I will continue to people watch and listen to Carrie…..and check my watch again.
The birds are having a party in my backyard and there’s a little flirtation going on between two. She does’t seem interested mister chickadee/sparrow or whatever the heck you are. I enjoy sitting out in my backyard in the morning and listening to the sounds of the critters and creatures I share this space with. I wonder if I will become a bird lady when I am old. You know-one of those old people who carries around baggies of bread crumbs in her pocket to feed the birds wherever she goes. The thought kind of scares me and makes me smile at the same time.
There’s just 3 weeks left here in the States before I go back to Russia. I fluctuate between using the words “going home to Russia” and “going back to Russia”. Where is my home? If “home is where the heart is” mine is split in two. Houston and Yuzhno. Summer home and Winter home. Family home and expat home. I’m ready and I’m anxious. I’ll be all by myself. At least this time I know what to expect when I get to Russian customs. It still will be intimidating waiting in that line with my blue passport, being stared at, having young families and elderly cut in front of me, not understanding what is being discussed around me. My heart will still pound. My stomach will still have butterflies. Yet, I will greet the customs officer with my best “Здравствуйте” (“zdra-stvooy-tye”) knowing it won’t yield a smile- but I will have tried.
It’s been months since I wrote on this blog and I’m not sure why. Did life intervene? Was it a lack of topics to write about? Or perhaps no one really wanted to read my posts anyway. Whatever the case, I’m back to my ramblings.
I’ve been home in the sultry south for 6 weeks now, enjoying seeing my kids and friends, and being in my own house – despite the revolving door of workmen. I’d forgotten how much upkeep a house can be.
The lyrical strings of a harp (thank you smart phone) wake me each morning at 6 a.m., ensuring I embrace the morning. I love the sweet smell of the air when the humidity is low, plus the combination of the flowers and herbs growing in my garden; and I know waking early is the only way to appreciate this part of the day. Anyone who lives here will tell you morning is to be appreciated! A friend told me I am a person who seems to enjoy extreme temps. The -24 F of Russia and the 90s F of the Gulf Coast. I guess it’s true.
This particular expat assignment reminds me to appreciate the little things we tend to overlook in our daily routines. Taking time to be still, sit outside and listen. Embracing the various hues of the produce section in my local HEB. Need a pop of color in your home? Pick up an eggplant, orange pepper, ripe banana, green cucumber and a red apple, plop them in a basket and voila-instant mood uplift.
It’s great to be home but I do miss Russia. Despite the difficulty getting on and off the island— there’s something about life on Sakhalin Island. The community. The forest. The weather. The mountains. It’s a simple, slow-paced lifestyle – and I appreciate the little things. Walking to the community grocery store. Reading a sign that’s in Russian. Seeing the young, stern security man crack a little smile when I say hello. Watching my dog’s ears flap as she trots down the sidewalk in the snow. Taking time to “be in the moment” and less planning for what’s ahead. Each day is a gift of little things to unwrap and enjoy. Whether here in Texas or there in Russia, I vow to treasure the gifts presented to me each day. Will you?
Yes! It’s here. The time of year when people walk a little lighter and smiles take the place of grumpy grimaces. After months of cold temps and winter weather, we begin to enjoy the season of rebirth. The word itself can make people smile. “Spring” – such a happy word! The season of crocuses, azaelas, scents of hyacinth and buds of hopeful flowers ready to burst forth a fountain of color. A highly anticipated season for the “April showers bring May flowers”.
Oh. Wait a minute. That would be spring back in my hometown in the USA. I’m in Russia now. On Sakhalin Island. Spring here is the Midwest’s bleakest days of winter. The slushy, grey snow lines the streets and the city seems devoid of color. The Soviet-style concrete apartments that line the streets look even more ominous and the uniform raincoat of people walking in town is grey or black in anticipation of the wave of slush the passing cars will spew up onto the sidewalks. The two main roads into the city are pockmarked with gaping wounds of crumbling asphalt–a “victim” of the incessant freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw on the island.
A Sakhalin Spring is a tease. A few days of sunshine and “balmy” temps in the 40s…(yes, I said 40′s is balmy), had me moving the down coats and fur-lined boots to the nether regions upstairs, nestled away until next winter. WRONG. Plummeting temperatures and falling snow the next morning brought us several inches of the white stuff and back upstairs to the nether regions I go, retrieving my boots and down. Sigh. It’s funny how perceptions change. In other places I’ve lived, spring was the season we loved the most; the time of year that brought us much joy. Here on Sakhalin Island, winter is that season, the eagerly awaited time of year when people walk with a spring in their step and dash outside to enjoy the weather. It’s so beautiful here in winter and relatively easy to manage. (Unless you have small children who need to be bundled up “Christmas Story” style). There’s no reason to stay inside in the winter – unless it is minus 20 and gale force winds of course. But a Sakhalin Island spring–well–you have to really twist my arm to go outside when it is “precipitating” a slushy, sleety mess. Despite the spring blues, I keep focused on the fact that just around the corner in late May, the forests will be teeming with wildlife and I will be awakened in the wee hours by chirping birds perched outside my window. I won’t complain! A Sakhalin summer is glorious, followed by a breathtaking autumn. We truly live in a forest on this island and from what I hear, the trees become a blaze with color. After the short-lived autumn comes – WINTER and the cycle starts all over again. But I won’t complain. I will continue to treasure each day and continue to walk with a spring in my step on this island I call home.