From the Frying Pan into . . . Another Frying Pan

When my husband, Drew, left Arkansas to return to his job at the Anglo American School of Moscow on July 30^th, the one thing he knew he was not going to miss was the heat and humidity.  Three-digit temperatures and jungle-like humidity levels had spiked the heat index as high as 115 for the majority of his 3-week stay.  He was looking forward to early morning jogs in Moscow where temperatures can be 25 to 30 degrees cooler than in Arkansas this time of the year.  He might even return home after his 4-mile route with at least one stitch of dry clothing.

Then the weather in Russia started to change; temperatures began to creep upwards and upwards reaching 100-degrees.  Reports of peat bog fires began to surface, putting villages in danger and smoke drifting towards the capital.  “Surely it won’t last very long,” I said, trying to offer a few comforting words as I dropped him off at the Little Rock airport.  We could never have imagined how wrong my prediction would be or how much worse the situation would become.

Each day Drew has reported on the worsening heat and smoke, from his corner of northwest Moscow, where the school and our neighboring apartment building are located.  Looking out the picture windows, which wrap around the living room of our 10^th floor apartment, he said last week that the “picture” had vanished. The Anglo American School, which is clearly visible a half-mile away on sunny days, and discernible even on misty overcast mornings or during swirling snow showers, had disappeared, hidden by thick, grayish-white smoke.  Acres of forest, a mere thousand feet from our apartment building, were gone, as if they had been erased, all the color drained from view.  I imagined myself staring out at the same scene, with a mounting feeling of isolation creeping around me like a white cocoon.

The cocoon has encircled the city for two weeks.  Russian friends, Zhenya, Natasha(s), Sergei, Alexei, Olga, Julia, and Rita, come to mind.  Living in apartments or dachas with no air conditioning, like most Muscovites, and often taking public transportation, usually the sweltering metro, they have no choice but to breathe the unhealthy air day and night.   “The smell of smoke permeates everything,” Drew tells me.  “My throat is sore from breathing it in, like just about everyone I talk to.”

“Russia wildfires have now pushed carbon monoxide levels in Moscow to 6.5 times the allowable level and the concentration of other unspecified toxins to 'up to 9 times' acceptable limits.”

-Russia's health ministry.  (August 8)

I am scheduled to fly back to Moscow and into the haze on Friday, the 13^th, a date which may be trying to tell me something.  With continued concern about the safety of returning students and staff, the AAS start date has been delayed by a week, and Drew suggests that I postpone my return.  In yesterday’s email, he writes,  “It did rain a bit last night ... not much, but the air sure is clearer today.  The wind has shifted so that makes a big difference.  It is still HOT but relief, they say, is on the way.”  Encouraged by this window of hopeful news, I change my flight for a week later. 

Thinking of the thousands of people whose lives, health, and homes have been affected, some permanently, I reflect on Drew’s words to the faculty and staff as he announced the delay of the beginning of school:

“It is surreal, as pictured in some sci-fi movie depicting our future mother earth if we continue pumping greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. While none of us here would wish this experience on any of you, it is a very sobering picture and valuable lesson (I hope) for the entire world.”