Departing Thoughts or Dazhe Ne Veritsya

It’s always hard to say goodbye. And I amidst all the good-byes at school and PDI, I didn’t feel anything resembling sadness until last night. The last week or so has been packed full of work, things I had been meaning to do (Dai Pyat reunion concert, be Fidel Castro for Halloween, plan my trip to Russia), and good-bye parties. At our epic Halloween party where the host was the only one out of costume, the gifts and final well-wishes finally caught up to me, and I can no longer smile and say, “Oh, thank you for this camel/yurt/tiputeka. I can’t wait to show my friends and family back home. Oh, of course I’ll be back soon…” I’ve been given two t-shirts in Russian, saying “Petro Loves Phil”, and “Real Man.” I got an original oil painting from the art teacher at our school, a box full of photo albums and picture frames and the coolest jewelry I’ve ever owned. I don’t really know how to cope.

The closest thing I can relate this farewell experience to is graduating from Wooster. There was a tense and stressful week with packing to do, best friends to spend time with, and pressure to enjoy the last few moments of an experience which will never be repeated. Never. And I remember doing exceptionally well with the actual good-byes. There were hugs and laughs, promises of staying in touch and warm well-wishes—but no tears. I like to think I am a “real man” who can hold my emotions just beneath the perceivable surface. I am not a wimp. But as the van holding my family and my entire worldly belongings pulled out of Beall Avenue and the place where I spent four great years slipped away, I cried tears of farewell. I knew and know that those years and experiences are part of a story I could, from then on, only reach in the past tense.

I am certain my farewell from Petropavlovsk will be similar. Petro is a place I fell in love with, a place where I grew, a place where I found a new part of me. How am I supposed to say good-bye?

I’ve started with thank-yous, though I can’t say “thank you” enough. I feel indebted to the people who made this experience of mine all the more bright and pleasant. They welcomed me with open arms, wide smiles and an eagerness to share everything—culture, food, family, friends, holidays, dreams, frustrations—with me, a guy from Kentucky hoping to help some kids learn English and see the world a bit more clearly than before.

But this week has flown by and now I’m up late packing so I can get on a train headed south. I don’t have time to do the things I wanted to. I can’t go back and change anything at all. And in the whirlwind that is picnics, concerts, movies, Halloween English clubs and parties, banyas, and farewell dinners full of toasts of gratitude and do-you-remember-whens…, I can’t help echoing the sentiment I’ve heard time and again from friends here: “Dazhe ne veritsya, I can hardly believe it…” I know that all the emotions, the weight of the moment of a huge life transition—and yes, the tears—won’t really hit me until I’m sitting on that train, picking up speed on that last thirty-hour trip to Almaty.