When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It's Time To Go Home (16 page)

As I sat there day after day wearing headphones, listening to the interpreter struggle to make our words relevant, I wondered if we could establish a meaningful rapport with a nation that had never seen raisins dance in dark glasses on TV . . . never had a garage sale . . . never played bingo in the church basement.

I remembered the long lines of people I had seen on Gorky Street on my way to the offices of the committee. I recall thinking if I was standing in the early morning frost for hours, there had better be a pair of Phantom of the Opera tickets at the end of it or a ride on Magic Mountain.

Was it possible that out of our uncommon lives we shared common problems? We didn't have a choice. If we really loved our children, then we had to start reaching out to one another.

When you've been adversaries for so long, it's hard to show your warts. Each country had them. It was only a matter of who was going to show theirs first. It was a slow process. We admitted American women were not in our Constitution. Russian women were in their constitution. They admitted the day care centers that were supposed to be years ahead of ours had a lot of problems. We admitted to a high divorce rate. They allowed there was a serious drinking problem among Soviet men. They had guilt. We had guilt. We would like to get rid of toys that depicted Russians as villains. They expressed shock because they had never had warlike toys to begin with.

Slowly, almost shyly, they began to ask about our system, especially about how we provided so much counseling to our people. We talked to them about “volunteerism.” The word didn't even translate. The closest we came was “compassion.” We told them helping one another was what Americans did best.

They pointed out they heard we put our elderly parents into homes and ignored them. They didn't do that. We pointed out they didn't mainstream their disabled. They burst with pride that changes were abounding in the Soviet Union. I asked them how many Jews were represented on their Women's Soviet Committee and there was a long silence. “The weaker our men get, the stronger we become,” they said. We pointed out their country, like ours, is run primarily by men.

The glaring difference between the present Moscow and the one of a few years ago was the freedom with which we moved through the city. We availed ourselves of the circus, the Bolshoi Ballet, and the daily search for food.

You can only have so many hot dogs for breakfast and then you go into junk food shock. We had to have real food. Through conscientious whining, we found out that a cooperative restaurant (one that is privately owned) in Moscow served Sara Lee cheesecake. On a scale of one to ten in euphoria, it was just under an arms agreement. We all piled into taxicabs and made our way to the restaurant.

OK, so the bread was bad, the salad was bad, the fish was bad, but we knew there was a big finish. They were out of cheesecake.

Many times before travelers go to a country, they pack too much baggage—not necessarily clothes, but impressions of what the people are going to be like and how they will fit the stereotype fashioned for them. In my mind, I visualized Russian women with skinny legs, big boobs, and no waistline draped in the same print dress. In fact, there was a commercial shown in America depicting industrial-strength Soviet women that only reinforced my perception. It was a fashion show in which every Russian woman had the same floral shift, and the only way you knew the outfit was different was that she carried a beachball for “swimvear” or a flashlight for “evening vear.”

I was wrong. Russian women may not be as trendy as American women, but they care about what they look like as much as other women throughout the world. They are limited only by budget and availability of merchandise. They have waistlines and trim ankles, and they wear makeup effectively. It was a surprise for me to hear they are “into” spas and have been for years.

Personally, I am a spa freak. Show me a place where you touch your ear to your knee one hundred forty-five times an hour, balance your body in the air on your shoulders and squeeze your buttocks, sit naked in a Jacuzzi, eat oat breath mints and drink herbal tea, and I will pay $1,500 a week to go there.

I arrive with suitcases filled with cute little coordinated outfits that I change six times a day. I don't read a newspaper or watch TV. My focus is my body and whether or not I'm a summer, fall, autumn, or spring “color.” I go early to the gym and get my spot all staked out. (An evil woman once snapped at me, “If I had known it was so territorial, I'd have wet on my mat!”) I spend all my evenings writing down recipes which I will never use, popping water pills, and committing my cholesterol number to memory.

Spas in America are usually limited to women who don't need them, but who want to be pampered and told they don't need them. They just like the elegance of sitting around listening to Japanese music piped into their pillows, rose petals on their tofu, and fifty-pound terry cloth robes.

With this picture in mind, I stood before a red brick Russian bath that could have been the oldest school building in New York City. It made a condemned Y look like La Costa. There were four of us who at this point concurred that coming here was one of the bravest things we had ever done. We didn't know a single word of Russian between us, had no idea how we were going to bluff our way through this day once we left the cab. At best, we could spend a luxurious afternoon. At worst, we could set Russian relations back two hundred years.

We checked our coats and waited. Several minutes had passed when a woman summoned us to follow her to a large room with little cubicles. She then went through a pantomime of taking off her clothes over her head. No one spoke as we looked at one another. She did it again and disappeared. Finally, one of our delegates said, “I think she wants us to take our clothes off.”

“Mary-Lou,” I said, “if you are wrong, this is going to be the longest day of our lives.”

Once we were in the buff, we were led to a large room and abandoned. Milling around us were thirty or more buck-naked Soviet women wearing wool ski caps. It was enough to take the sight out of a good eye. They looked us over and instinctively knew we were Americans and decided to take us under their wings.

We didn't have ski caps to protect our heads from the heat of the sauna, so they wrapped towels around our skulls. We would have followed them anywhere. When they scrubbed their feet, we scrubbed our feet. When they grabbed eucalyptus branches to flog themselves in the steam bath, so did we. When they sat in the sauna and dehydrated, we clung to them the way a nylon slip sticks to pantyhose. When they fell into the cold, green pool, we followed. Later, we all agreed that summit meetings between world leaders should be conducted in the nude—to keep everything in perspective. It's a great equalizer.

Their facials are in Baskin-Robbins flavors. I chose the strawberry because one of the attendants showed me a picture of Linda Evans and then pointed to the strawberry mix. Gorbachev should have her optimism.

When a magazine editor asked in amazement why we went to a Russian bath and what I discovered about Soviet women there, I said, “It reaffirmed what I have always known ... all women are not created equal.”

Or were we? Once you have looked into the eyes of people in a foreign country, you realize you all want the same thing: food on your table, love in your marriage, healthy children, laughter, freedom to be. The religion, the ideology, and the government may be different, but the dreams are all the same.

We were nearing our last hours in Moscow. I went to my hotel room to pack. It was an enormous room, a two-room suite, actually, that was so ... Russian. The ceilings were high and ornate; there was bric-a-brac everywhere. Antique lamps were topped by shades with fringe. Hardwood floors gleamed. A large piano dominated the room. (It had no insides.) I picked up the last of the bottled water I had brought from New York (I couldn't find any in Russia) and went to the window before slugging it down. The room overlooked the Kremlin.

I folded the used towels in the bathroom, emptied the ashtrays bulging with candy wrappers (I had brought candy to give to the children, but I needed it worse than they did), and closed the giant doors of the ornate armoire. Pausing at the door before leaving, I walked back into the room and poised myself over one of the lamps before speaking into it. “Forget the extra towels I ordered. I'm leaving today. I had a nice time.”

I don't know if the room was bugged or not, but if we love children, someone has to give.

A Jack Nicholson

Wheat Toast Day

In a film called Five Easy Pieces, Jack Nicholson has a classic scene in a diner. When he orders two pieces of wheat toast, he is told it isn't on the menu and they cannot possibly make an exception.

He says to the waitress, “Let me make it easy for you. I'll have the chicken salad sandwich on wheat bread. Hold the mayonnaise, hold the lettuce and the chicken salad, and toast the bread.”

Eating on a vacation is often a challenge. Shortages, customs, unrecognizable spices, ethnic favorites, lack of health standards. All are a part of the foraging process. Sometimes it's a real cerebral experience.

While in Jerusalem, I called room service on a Friday night to order something light for dinner.

“I'll have a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of matzo ball soup,” I said.

The voice of room service said, “I cannot do that. This is Shabbat.” (Shabbat is the Jewish sabbath observance from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday.)

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“That means we observe kosher dietary laws. We cannot serve a dairy product with the soup and the soup would have to be served separately. They cannot be delivered on the same tray, nor can they be in the room at the same time. Also, we do not do manual labor on Shabbat and cannot operate the toaster.”

“I see,” I said. “Then could you bring a bowl of soup to my room? Then deliver me a plain cheese sandwich on whole wheat bread and leave it in the hallway. When I am finished with the soup, I will put the bowl in the hallway and bring in the sandwich.” It was perfectly acceptable and no laws were broken.

There is always a way.

Montserrat

The kids were oohing and aahing over the swimming pool tucked underneath the villa. My husband was in a state of excitement at being able to bring in Dan Rather on the large TV set in the living room. Other family members and friends were exploring the fantastic view from the large porch that overlooked the Caribbean.

I was in the kitchen slumped in a chair wondering how I was going to feed ten people with one box of powdered milk, one jar of jelly, three frozen chicken fillets, one small jar of instant coffee, and a bottle of Scotch.

When we leased the villa, we were assured the staff would stock provisions for the first day until we got our bearings. The agreement also listed a caretaker in residence and maid service four days a week.

The caretaker was a young islander who called himself Soul Man. He was born in Montserrat and had the deal of his life. He had his own digs, used the big house when no one was there, and had use of a car. All he had to do for all of this was to smile and cut the grass every two weeks.

“I have to make a trip into town for groceries,” I told Soul Man. “I cannot possibly feed ten people with this. Do you suppose you could give me a hand?”

The smile never left his handsome face. “Ooooooh, bad time to go to the store. It's the day after Christmas.”

“I know that, but tomorrow is Sunday and we're going to be in big trouble by then.”

Soul Man drove me to a large warehouse of sorts where cases of beer and soft drinks were stacked to the ceiling. At one end were a few sparsely stocked shelves. All the milk was powdered. There were no fresh vegetables or fruits and only a few loaves of bread.

“How about meats?” I asked.

He smiled and pointed to a chest freezer. I opened it and stared in. It was barren with the exception of five inches of frost and three naked chickens that had been dressed and tossed in ... no bags, no wrappings, no nothing. Their positions were unnatural. I pulled them out and headed to the checkout with them in my cart.

The moment the cashier saw the chickens she began to scream at me. “What is she saying?” I asked Soul Man.

“She says those are her chickens. She has been saving them until she gets off work. They are not for sale.”

For the first day or so, we ate like we were a lost platoon on maneuvers. I apologized and said come Monday I would go to a real store.

On Monday, when I approached Soul Man, he said, “Ooooooh, bad time to go to store on Monday. It's the day of the beauty pageant in Montserrat. Everything closed.”

“Maybe when Carla the maid comes in she will know of a store that is open,” I said.

“Carla will not come in today. I told you, it's the day of the beauty pageant.”

“Is she in it?” I asked.

He thought I was joking and smiled.

During the next day or so we visited several grocery stores, each one more depressing than the one before. We scoured the phone book and saw a full-page ad for a meat market. When we got there, it was the size of an airline restroom and had nothing. We ate a lot of bread and applesauce and cookies.

But it was the instant coffee that drove us crazy. All of us are “real coffee” drinkers. We searched the house from top to bottom looking for some kind of a pot to brew coffee in. No success. On our next trip to town, we vowed to get a coffeepot for “real coffee.”

On the fourth day, one of our guests unearthed a seven-pound ham. I figured that would give us a dinner, plus sandwiches for a day or so. By the time the fat cooked down, we were lucky to have enough to flavor green beans. If we had been able to get green beans.

Carla didn't come on the next working day because it was Jump-Up Festival in Montserrat. I had no idea what that was, but if they served snow cones on the street or even a hot dog, it was worth cleaning my own house and doing my own laundry. We went to Jump-Up Festival but never found a street vendor.

When we asked strangers where they shopped, they were rather vague and guarded about where they got their food. One woman advised I should go to the open market if I wanted fresh fruits and vegetables. “But go early,” she warned.

I barely slept just thinking about an outdoor market. I don't even like salads. Catsup every week or so is the only vegetable I eat with any regularity. But the idea of not seeing a tomato or a piece of lettuce for a week just seemed unnatural.

In the small, dark hours of the morning, my husband and I headed to market with our large baskets in tow. We joined the small group of people milling around. At one counter, a salesperson stood guard over thirty-seven little string beans. I counted them.

“I'll take all the string beans you have,” I said, opening my purse.

She looked at me closely like she was interviewing a surrogate mother. “If I sell you the string beans, you have to take the tomato.”

The tomato was bruised beyond description. “I don't want the tomato,” I said.

“Then you don't get the string beans.” She sniffed and went on to the next customer. I ran behind her pleading my case. I couldn't believe it. I was groveling for thirty-seven lousy beans for ten people!

I never worked so hard for food in my life. I got four potatoes at one stand, three tomatoes at another, two heads of romaine lettuce, and a bunch of green bananas that are still on the kitchen countertop in Montserrat ripening to this day.

“Where do you buy meat?” I kept asking. Finally, one man motioned to the alley behind the market. I walked up and down until I found a door with a freezer inside.

“Hamburger?” I asked.

The man smiled and gave me a box full of frozen patties. I had the feeling they were any kind of meat you wanted them to be.

A couple of our guests were in charge of tracking down a coffeepot, which was like telling Columbus, “Go find a new world.” An owner of one of the stores finally said, “Look, I've got an electric coffeepot I never use. I'll sell it to you for $40.”

There was a reason why he never used it. The current in Montserrat was all wrong for it and it took hours for the water to filter through the coffee. One of us would have to set the alarm for two a.m. to start the coffee so it would be there for breakfast.

After a while, it was amazing how the Swiss Family Wilderness actually survived. We got pretty creative. At lunch one day we had potato salad, canned tuna salad, and canned shrimp salad. If anyone was allergic to mayonnaise, he'd have starved to death. Another time we planned a picnic around beef jerky and oatmeal cookies. It was never “What did you do today?” It was, “What did you find to eat today?”

Through conscientious dedication, we found a Sara Lee outlet, an ice cream connection, and a bakery. The big news is we found a turkey for New Year's. All of us wrote cards home sharing that find.

One morning of the second week, a woman appeared at the villa and started to dust the dining room. It was the elusive Carla, a Montserrat native species we thought was extinct. She explained she missed two days ago because of New Year's. We said we understood. We asked her if there was one great grocery store we hadn't found yet and she said, “No.” Then she added, “I won't be in on Friday. It's my birthday.”

We tried to rationalize the shortage of food on Montserrat. There was food on Antigua, Guadeloupe, and other islands around it. Maybe eating was something that never got important to them. I remember picking up a large circle of white enclosed in cellophane and asking the grocery clerk what it was. She said, “It's icing for the cake. After you have baked a cake, you just drop it on.” I never figured them for the Stepford Wives . . . especially Carla. Maybe we were trying to re-create the home we had just left. Most travelers are like that when it comes to their stomachs.

It's interesting what you think about when you mention the name of a place you've visited. I barely remember the beaches, the weather, or the history of Montserrat. I think about ten people who for one shining moment thought they had come to Camelot and ended up with beef jerky and oatmeal cookies.

The night before we left the island retreat, my husband said, “Don't forget to clean out the refrigerator.” What a kidder. It had been cleaned out since the day we arrived.

“How early do we leave in the morning?” I asked.

“The plane takes off at seven-thirty a.m.,” he answered.

I jumped up. “Why didn't you tell me earlier? The coffee will never get done.”

Great Barrier Reef

We have never been your basic beach family.

We don't know what to do with ourselves.

There is a picture of us taken in Hawaii several years ago on our visit to the island of Kauai. While other fun-seekers around us were stretched out comatose on towels, their basted bodies toasted brown by the sun, our family was a study in motion. The dog was hyper from chasing a Frisbee. Our sons were playing volleyball. Our daughter was building the Trump Tower in the sand. My husband was swathed in towels balancing our checkbook. I was hooking a rug.

We have slides of us doing crossword puzzles on the beach in Tahiti, buying dresses from vendors in Cabo San Lucas, and using metal detectors in search of loose change in Fiji. Other than the fact that we are all keeping busy, there is another common thread running through the pictures. I am wearing the same bathing suit.

It is a no-nonsense, one-piece, blue and white polka dot with industrial strength straps, a generous drape over the stomach, and enough rubber in the bra to support an eighteen-wheeler.

If I weren't such a phony, I'd probably admit that's the real reason I don't “do beaches.” They're infested with women from the current Sports Illustrated swimwear edition. I have cooked bigger turkeys than most of them.

The idea of actually going into the water came about on a Caribbean cruise when one of the ports was St. Thomas. My husband wanted me to take a short course in scuba diving, but when I heard you had to do a little math I told him if I wanted to use my brain on vacation, I'd stay in my cabin and watch “Jeopardy.” Instead, I took a bus to a beach where a young kid spit into a mask, placed it over my face, and told me to float and I would probably see Lloyd Bridges. I fell in love with snorkeling. I wasn't good at it, but I loved it. It was a world I had never seen before.

When we made plans to take the family to the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia, I even went so far as to try to replace my fifteen-year-old swimsuit.

I brushed by the racks of bikinis that looked like snack crackers and wondered who designed these things. Swimsuit manufacturers were out to lunch. Did they honestly believe that all women are endowed with the same equipment? Couldn't they figure out that when a stomach is covered with gold lame it looks like the Capitol dome? Or that many women have erosion on their bodies that looks like a relief map of California's freeways?

My hand brushed by a little one-piece black suit that looked promising. In the fitting room, it slipped over my body. The neck was high enough, but the legs of the suit went all the way up to my armpits. I figured no one at the Great Barrier Reef had seen my blue and white polka dot number.

Our destination was Heron Island, one of two island resorts that is actually on the reef. It formerly housed a turtle soup factory, but that didn't work out, and in 1932, someone figured out it had tourist potential.

At Gladstone, Australia, a woman quickly rushed us onto the tarmac into a waiting helicopter for the trip. As an afterthought, she tossed in a couple of packets and said, “By the way, these are your parachute packs. Please don't inflate them until after you leave the plane.” I had no intention of leaving the plane.

An hour later, we were at one of the most beautiful islands I had ever set eyes on. It was our kind of beach. No one, but no one, was sitting idly in the sun. Everyone was busy. Children and adults wearing tennis shoes were scouring the shallow reefs with glass-bottom buckets looking for sea life. Snorkelers dotted the water, and large rubber boats carried scores of divers to blue waters rich with sea life.

I quickly changed into my suit, spit on my mask, put it over my face, and floated out to sea. Within minutes, my older son tapped me on the shoulder and as I lifted my face out of the water, I saw him waving two feet of fat snake in front of my eyes. “It's a sea slug,” he yelled. I wanted to hurt him. My husband said, “Don't scare your mother like that.” I was a little more direct. “You-are-out-of-the-will!” I shouted.

On an excursion in the glass-bottom boat I saw things that I had never seen in the gentle coves of St. Thomas. These fish had large mouths and jagged teeth. There were slimy eels and humongous shadows cast by manta rays. This was not good.