This was a crazy time for a lone American to set off on an extended ramble across the country. On the other hand, maybe it was the perfect time. In the midst of the PR flame war, I’d be able to see what was really happening on the ground in Russia. And I’d be doing it through face-to-face conversations with people I’d been dropping in on for 20 years.
Something about this particular contradiction—this presumed enmity between Russians and Americans, even as people connected easily on a human level—had always fascinated me. It was the reason I became obsessed with Russia in the first place, back when I was a patriotic young military brat.
In the summer of 1976, my mother announced that she was going to visit the Soviet Union. This was an unusual choice for an American during those Cold War years, and especially for the spouse of an active-duty U.S. military officer. But she was curious, so she booked a tour and went to explore Moscow, Leningrad, and Kiev for a couple of weeks while my dad, a U.S. Navy pilot who’d just got done fighting the Communists in Vietnam, took care of my brother and me at home.
I was nine years old and deeply confused. Weren’t the Russians our enemies? Why would my mom want to go visit the people my dad was fighting against? The whole time she was away, I was terrified; I truly feared I’d never see her again. But when she got back, she told us that she’d had a wonderful time and Russian people were lovely, and she showed us pictures of candy-drop-colored churches and gave us gifts, including a beautiful hand-carved wooden box that I treasured.
So, Russians were our enemies, but they were also really nice people? Now I was more confused than ever. From that moment on, I needed to see the place for myself, to understand how both these facts could possibly be true.
I wanted to learn Russian, with its weird letters and incomprehensible sounds, but to my disappointment neither my middle school nor my high school offered classes. So for many years, the closest I could come was to painstakingly copy the Russian translation of John 3:16 from the front pages of the Gideon Bible whenever we happened to be staying in a motel. I’d carefully trace out the Cyrillic letters, wondering what it would sound like to speak them aloud, then marveling that one day I would actually know.
At last, in college, I got my chance. I earned my bachelor’s degree in Russian Language and Literature, though even after four years of study, I still spoke it atrociously. My language skills improved during the seven months I spent at the U.S. embassy in Moscow, but it wasn’t until that first year in St. Petersburg, 1994–95, that I became fluent.
So, when I went on the 1995 trip with Gary, my Russian skills were very good. On the 2005 trip, they were pretty good. Now, as I prepared for my third trip, they were decidedly not good. I hadn’t set foot in the country for ten years, and apart from the occasional tipsy vodka toast, I hadn’t spoken a word of Russian. What I needed was a chance to practice everyday conversation with native speakers. Fortunately, the neighborhood where I was living—West Hollywood, California—happened to be chockablock with Russian immigrants.
I found my way to the small Russian Language Library on Santa Monica Boulevard, where I met Sofia, a white-haired, bespectacled émigré who agreed to chat while she minded the desk. We started simply, telling each other where we were from, where we lived, what kind of work we did. Good, I thought. This is easy. Then, she asked if I had a family. And I froze.
I remembered that in Russian, you can’t simply say “I’m married.” It’s a gendered construction, meaning you either say “I am wifed,” or “I am husbanded” (technically, “I am behind husband,” which deserves a dissertation of its own). So I looked Sofia in the eye and said, in Russian, “I am wifed.”
She smiled indulgently. “No, you are husbanded.” She figured I’d misspoken.
“Actually,” I said, “I am wifed.”
“Ohhh,” she said, then paused thoughtfully. “Well, these things happen. There are many such people in West Hollywood. It does not bother me. But I don’t think you should tell anyone in Russia.”
Her advice didn’t come as a surprise. Ever since Russia passed a law in 2013 outlawing the “propaganda of nontraditional sexual relations to minors,” a new wave of anti-gay sentiment, including episodes of violence, had reportedly swept the country. Even though the law didn’t criminalize homosexuality outright, it was written in a way that seemed to justify anti-gay backlash. After all, even simply telling someone you’re gay could be legally construed as “propagandizing,” if some random child happens to be within earshot.
Living in St. Petersburg in the mid-1990s, I’d never worried too much about anti-gay attitudes—but I didn’t exactly broadcast anything, either. I was single, so I didn’t have to lie when asked if I was married or had a family. On the 1995 trip, whenever people asked about boyfriends, I’d just smile coyly and change the subject. This works well when you’re 28. But returning in 2005, at age 38, I found it harder to shake off people’s queries, which started to take on a tone of grave concern. Really? I was almost 40 and still didn’t have a man? That was sad enough; I could only imagine the looks of horror and pity I’d get this time, at age 48, still having failed to get “behind husband.”
The problem could be avoided with a simple white lie, but it was one I couldn’t bring myself to utter. I once lost a job because I was gay, and throughout my adult life I’d endured countless conversations with homophobic colleagues, acquaintances, and relatives about whether I could or should “change.” When I finally did get married, in 2010, my own brother refused for religious reasons to come to the wedding. This was a battle I’d been fighting for a long time, and I was proud to have a stable, loving relationship with my wife, Randi. I hated the idea of denying her existence, or worse, making up a fake husband. But it now seemed, for safety’s sake, I might have to.
As I continued to plan, other worries popped up. For one, how safe would I be traveling alone? I’d never felt unsafe on those earlier trips, but of course I had been with Gary and David. In general, street crime didn’t seem like a big problem in Russia, though I’d actually had my suitcase stolen in St. Petersburg just two days before the 2005 trip launched. I’d been staying in a friend’s apartment, and while neither of us was home, a thief broke in through a window and lugged the entire bag back out with him, making off with my clothes, winter coat, boots, backup software, antibiotics, cash, and, most irritatingly, all of my underwear. I was devastated by the theft, oddly hurt that some Russian asshole would steal my stuff when I was here trying publicize the human side of his country. The saving grace was that I’d had my laptop and passport with me. Everything else, I’d had to replace on a manic, deeply resented shopping spree.
I’d have to be careful traveling alone, especially since the Russian economy was now in the toilet. On January 1, 2014, one U.S. dollar bought 33 rubles. On June 1, 2015, three months before my trip, a dollar bought 53 rubles. And on September 2, 2015, the day I arrived in Vladivostok, a dollar bought a breathtaking 67 rubles—meaning that U.S. dollars were now worth twice as much as they’d been less than two years earlier. How safe would a lone American woman, traveling across Russia during a wave of anti-American sentiment, carrying dollars (and a backpack full of expensive Apple products) in the midst of an economic meltdown, truly be?