Hello, Russia!

Years ago, when the tanks were encroaching upon Moscow, my son came home from high school and said, "Mom, I'm going to Russia."  The trip was being arranged by the American Field Service, an organization dedicated to promoting a more peaceful world through intercultural exchange.  Brian was chosen as one of the students to go, and I can only guess that his Russian great-grandfather smiled down from heaven. 

He went in October and stayed with a family that he loved; the father spoke little English, but took Brian under his wing as more than a guest.  They would watch soccer together.  The mother made him a strawberry drink, and filled a large plastic bottle for him to bring home to the States.  "Mom," he said, "they are just like us, with a great sense of humor." 

He got to see St. Basil's, the Hermitage, St. Isaac's, and rode on the Trans-Siberian Railway.   He bartered with shopkeepers and brought home an immense ushanka, a beautiful shawl, matryoshka dolls, and tea.  They had the best chocolate he ever had, and still dreams about the ice cream.  He saw men and women jumping into cold rivers to swim, gathering mushrooms, sweeping streets, and learned about the depth of pride contained in the heart of the Russian people. 

Can I say thank you for how you helped shape my son?  He got to see the other side of the world, yet not so very far concerning in the basic goodness of people.  Vadim, Evgeny, Max, and Igor.  When you look to the North Star, it is the one we see, too.  Spokoynoy nochi.