Charlotte and I are off to Moscow this weekend for our final trip to visit J., who will finally move to Beijing this summer- woo hoo!
Everytime I go to Moscow, I feel like our airplane is actually a time machine: I step off the plane, and suddenly I found myself transported back in time one year.
Everytime I go to Moscow, I have these very surreal moments where I find myself living the life I had a year ago: I’m back in our apartment in Moscow, where I get to see my husband every day. I’m back to being a stay-at-home mom. Charlotte and I play her old favourite games (emptying the kitchen drawers, jumping off the coffee table, trying to get out on the balcony without me noticing). When we go out, it’s to our neighbourhood park (though Charlotte no longer calls it Anya), to meet J. for lunch at our favourite Uzbek restaurant, or to the supermarket where I stare in shock at the ridiculously over-inflated prices, and struggle to get by with my awful Russian. I walk down the same streets, ogling the women’s flashy outfits, ready with an apologetic nye zna-yoo (I don’t know) for the lost babushka who will inevitably choose me to ask for directions.
Everytime I go to Moscow, there are mornings where I wake up, tangled in the purple sheets with J. snoring beside me, and for a moment I wonder if China was just a dream.
Our visits to Moscow always end too soon, and then we’re back on the airplane/time machine. And back to the present day.