Nineteen years ago today an otherwise routine TWA flight landed in the Kansas City International Airport with me, my family and all of our possessions on board. We walked out into a 70F day wearing winter jackets and fur hats to start our lives in this country with a few hundred dollars and our broken English.

To mark this date I will answer the question I’ve been asked the most during these years – How do you say “fuck” in Russian? What part of Russia is Ukraine? Do you miss the old country?

Do I miss the old country? The short answer is no. I really don’t. I don’t long for the streets and the beaches; don’t miss the sound of a familiar language; don’t care to mingle with the people; don’t feel like I belong there.

There is a long answer though, to a slightly different question: do I miss the old country between 1969 and 1992? Yes, I do.

I had plenty of time to think about nostalgia and even test it out by going back several times. I think that places don’t mean much without the memories. Memories is the difference between the place that means something in one’s life  and just another tourist attraction. You walk down the streets and remember a place where you first walked next to a girl; or a spot where you stood on your first day of school with a giant bouquet of flowers; a storefront that used to sell the best ice cream in the city; a toy store where you wandered in without any money; a street where you got punched in the nose (and still have a crooked nose as a reminder); a park you used to go to with your parents; a place where you learned to ride a bike; a building where you first love used to live; a street where you walked wearing a gas mask to win a bet; many other things, probably not that important in the big picture but still somehow stored in your head all these years. These things I miss, but they are no longer there, they were just a brief moments of my life and there is no way to go back and relive them. Maybe it’s better that way; that’s what makes these memories unique and a huge part of who I am.

I don’t have to go back to a specific place to reminisce. The place since moved on anyway – rebuilt, reinvented, repainted, renamed, refurbished, re-branded, repopulated, recycled and replaced. I no longer feel like I am a part of it. I feel like I am going back to the old country when I talk with my childhood friend in Argentina, or call my old neighbor in Boston, or catch up with my army buddy in New York. Old country is us. Old country is our memories. Old country is these photographs. Fuzzy and oddly vivid, just like I remember.

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No, this not a testicular MRI of a certain blogger. On the left is a citrus fruit Red Pummelo and on the right is a regular orange. Many times I walked by a stack of Pummelo’s at the grocery store wondering what do they taste like. Finally, when my savings account balance reached $2 I broke down and purchased one. Pummelo is four or five times larger than a regular orange but feels very light. Its skin is very thick and I followed the instructional video explaining how to get it ready to eat. (It’s long but I like the music)

httpvh://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5dyBrvLIj0

It took me 10-15 minutes to completely take apart the Pummelo by first scoring the peel in a spiral and then removing membrane from each segment. With a little sugar it tasted pretty good, similar to grapefruit but with a slightly different very pleasant flavor. I am not sure how often I will be eating Pummelo considering all the work, but I will probably buy it again when I save up another two bucks.

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Yep it’s a gym!

“Straight Talk Express” has left the city.

His name is not “The man upstairs”, his name is Jesus

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Entire text of this post is taken from the Time article “Wedding Day at Independence”

“I feel that marriage vows are sacred,” memoired Margaret Truman recently, “and I hope that mine will be spared the hurly-burly attending a news event.” Last week in Trinity Episcopal Church at Independence, Mo., where her parents were married 36 years ago, Margaret, now 32, saw her hope accomplished; she became Mrs. Elbert Clifton Daniel Jr. with more dignity and less hurly-burly than a former President’s daughter and TV-radio star could expect.

A month after her engagement announcement, Margaret left Manhattan for Independence stubbornly determined on dignity. She disappeared into the family’s 14-room, white Victorian house at 219 North Delaware Street for a week’s seclusion, emerged only to greet New York Timesman Daniel when he flew in,

later to meet his parents arriving from ZebuIon, N.C., then to attend a rehearsal and post-rehearsal dinner for the bridal party.

On the wedding eve she relented slightly, agreed to join Daniel in a 20-minute press conference for 50 encamped reporters. (Sample exchange: News hen: “I would like to ask what may be an embarrassing question . . .” Daniel: “Don’t ask it.”)

The wedding day burst fair and warm; Margaret Truman walked out of the 91-year-old house a last time on the arm of her ever-punctual, this time solemn father.

A crowd had circled the Truman gate to admire her gown of antique Venetian lace, pale beige in color because “white doesn’t become me.” Margaret paused to smile at them, then ducked into a limousine for the five-minute, six-block journey to Trinity Church. “She looks beautiful, Mr. Truman,” called a voice from the crowd. “Thank you, thank you very much,” said the farther of the bride. “I think so too.”

The tiny, freshly painted church was half full; some 60-odd were there, including ten reporters chosen to represent the corps. The guests were relatives and friends.

Among them were a handful whose names were familiar: ex-Treasury Secretary John Snyder, New York Real Estate Magnate William Zeckendorf, John Frederics (whose lace-crowned bridal veil Margaret wore), Italian Couturière Micol Fontana (who was commissioned to create the wedding gown because it was a Fontana dress Margaret was wearing one evening last November when she first met Daniel).

The Rev. Patric Hutton, 30-year-old rector of the church, read the marriage ceremony, watched as Daniel slipped a plain gold band on his bride’s finger.

After the wedding a select but friendly 250 gathered at the Truman home for a reception.

After 30 minutes in the receiving line, bride and groom slipped away to catch a train for the first leg of their honeymoon in Nassau. Margaret Truman had not been the only important bride of the week, but when it was all said and done, hers was the wedding that gave the U.S. that next-door feeling even if the nation stood on tiptoe to catch every detail of the other one.

Margaret Truman Daniel passed away in 2008 at the age 83.

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Today’s “then and now” is in bustling downtown Olathe, KS.

Looking west along Park Street between Chestnut and Cherry in Olathe. Shows these businesses: Hyer Boot Company Building; Shriver Hardware; Taylor Drug, Laborers AFL-CIO, TG&Y. (1960’s)

Looking west along Park Street at Chestnut in Olathe at buildings under construction (1970’s).

Same view today.

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