But don't worry--I have not been abducted by gypsies, held by the government, or lost in the metro (again.)
I'm just sick.
Like, really sick. Chest cold, up all night coughing, chills, sweating, can’t quite sleep, can’t quite stay awake--the whole thing. And like every good 27 year old woman, I am miserable and I want my mommy. I want someone to lie next to me, and rub my forehead and chest, and keep the water boiling for soup and tea. But there’s no one here to do that.
I've even been cancelling classes. So I’ve been sleeping all day, taking really hot steamy showers, drinking tea, and rubbing vodka on my chest and neck--the people here swear by it. Of course vodka is the solution for everything out here. Can't sleep? Drink some vodka. Stain won't come out? Use some vodka. Cant finish that corner of the Sudoku? Vodka, comrade--vodka.
So of course, if your chest feels bad, rubbing vodka on it is the logical Russian tactic. And, honestly, it really does help relax the chest a little. But it’s probably just the fumes. So if I run out of vodka, I’ll switch to nail polish remover. Or draw on my chest with permanent markers.
Slava says to me, "If you are to spend all the day in bed, you should kjust drink a lot of the vodka."
"Why?" I ask, "This will help the congestion?"
"Well, no. But you will feel better. And then you won't care about staying in the bed all day."
Bear in mind that Slava never, never drinks casually. He was put half in the bag by two glasses of wine at a staff dinner. So you've gotta love that piece of advice.
The worst part is that three short days of illness and I’m already stir crazy. Just staring hour-in, hour-out, at these insanely busy Russian sheets which say “Happy” on them, which is ironic because I am not. Not today. Why do they have to say that? Are they encouraging me to be happy? Reminding me that I should be? And since the pillowcases are shaped for massive Russian bed-pillows, why is it even in English?
Right now--and I know this sounds one padded room short of crazy--it feels like my sheets are mocking me.
Without internet in my apartment and absolutely no energy to leave, I’ve been reading Russia by Jonathan Dimbleby. And midway through, it occurs to me--I am closer to Chechnya than I am to home. I am closer to fucking China than I am to home. That thought is exhausting, when your aching, wrapped in sheets that would put the Partridge Family into a diabetic coma, and up all night with no one around to make you feel better…
At least the moon is pretty:
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