"There are no second acts in American lives."

This Sunday I boarded a bus and left for Lodenoye Pole (LP), the city I taught at in the summer of '07. As we headed off down the highway, it was interesting to see places that I had stopped at before on the road between LP and St. Pete. It conjured up a host of memories ("Oh yeah, I remember that place. It has squatty-potties." "Oh yeah, this is where the driver had to stop to get cigarettes." "Oh yeah, this is the spot I almost got runover trying to cross the street to get to a market during a break.") The bus ride takes about four hours, so I got comfortable and ended up reading The Great Gatsby most of the way. I read it a few years ago and didn't like it all that much. I picked it up again because I saw it laying around the apartment and it was small and fit in my bag (I am reading Dostoevsky's Demons right now, which isn't as convenient to lug around). I don't know what changed, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. Maybe it was because I remembered a quote of F. Scott Fitzgerald: "There are no second acts in American lives." I disagree, especially as I was about to begin mine in LP. It was funny, because I expected to recognize everything in the town and ended up recognizing very little. I like LP better than St. Petersburg. Everything isn't as flash and there's more puddles, but it just seems a little more genuine. Both cities were founded by Peter the Great, but St. Petersburg was modelled after Paris, Amsterdam, and Venice. LP wasn't modelled after anything. LP just was. 

I was going back to visit my favorite Russian family: the Prikhodkos. Their eldest, Olga, was one of my students last year and they were our neighbors. They had us over a few times and took me and Clint out to their dacha. I really enjoyed the family a lot. The mom and dad are wonderful to talk to (through Olga, our translator) and great people. There's another Prikhodko, Kiril, who is about 10-11 years old and is a budding soccer player.

Anyway, I was met at the bus station by Olga with her boyfriend, a tall, bookish gent who is big Miami Heat fan. She pointed out to me her family waving from the window (the apartments overlook the station). We went up and I barely had any time to ask any questions, as I was too busy just getting my replies out. Every now and then, Olga had to leave the room and so I was left without an interpreter for a few moments. In between my improved Russian and Stepan's (the father) military English, we were able to figure out what the other was saying and laugh a bit. Stepan was Soviet army officer for many years in Ukraine. Here's a picture of me with Kapiton Prikhodko looking suitably Soviet:

We had a delicious meal and went for a walk around LP seeing some of the sights, and before I knew it, it was time to go. So, I hurried onto the bus that was going to take me back to St. Pete, after promising to return and stay longer so I can see more old friends, talk more with the family, and go ice fishing with Kiril and Stepan. On the ride home I was awash in an enormous sense of well-being. I realized that it felt like I had just gone home (as in "home") and that's always a nice feeling when "home" is so far away. It was also like I went back in a time machine a year and a half; hearing the words I said then again, thinking the thoughts I thought then, and speaking with Prikhodko's as if I'd just been hunting mushrooms with them at their dacha yesterday.