Most would assume Russia and Eureka Springs, Arkansas, to be worlds apart in geography, politics, culture, cuisine, and, most starkly, climate. Over the past decade, I have spent six years living in Russia. Before that I spent sixteen in Arkansas. And though the aforementioned differences do exist, life here is vaguely reminiscent of some lifestyles in Arkansas--mine in particular.  

Northwest Arkansas country life is an interesting and unique experience: one that leaves an indelible mark on the soul;  memories of which echo for decades after leaving the Ozarks. 

Since driving north ten years ago, my rearview mirror tracing the road behind me through the tiny air-hole above the pile of stuff I ended up not needing at college, I have moved across time zones to six different cities in two states, and over oceans to a few foreign countries as well. 

Growing up on a farm ten miles outside of Eureka Springs, the last place I thought I would end up was Moscow. However, I now realize that, save actually moving back to Northwest Arkansas, my life in Moscow is the closest I can come to duplicating life in Eureka Springs.  

Hauling Water: The farm I grew up on was actually less farm and more slice of life from a Survivor episode. No electricity in the house, no running water, and, as the more forward-thinking among you have already guessed, a small wooden shack outside with a slanted tin roof and a crescent moon carved in the door. A splintered piece of wood rotated on its nail to keep the door closed when the outhouse was unoccupied. The dense, cone-shaped spider's web in the corner was home to the hairiest, most uninhibited tunnel spider I have ever seen.  

Like many who chose to live this rustic back-to-nature Arkansas life, we collected rainwater for bathing, and drinking and cooking water from a nearby spring twice a month. I can still feel the icy water spilling over the plastic milk jugs and onto my hands as I caught the stream that flowed from the mouth of the spring. I know exactly the weight of two full jugs in each hand, and although I now take hot showers in a real bathtub and live more luxuriously than most Russians, I still haul water once a week. A few upset stomachs and far too many commiserate tales of similar episodes keep me away from the tap. Without a car (not even an old Lada), I buy my drinking and cooking water at the local shop, and trudge the ten minutes home along snowy streets, hands numbing from the cold, and from lack of circulation as I balance two 5-liter jugs by their thin, plastic handles.  

Basic Necessities: Although I live in a westernized apartment complete with a washing machine and an artistic window between the kitchen and living room, in a Stalin-era building with two elevators servicing its 17 floors, I have had to resort, on occasion, to my Arkansan methods of boiling bath water on the stove. At least once a year, the hot water is suddenly switched off when the Russian Utilities Ministry realizes their heating budget is needed for other expenses (minister's new BMW, vacation to Swiss Alps). Their emergency energy conservation plan is to cut off the hot water supply and sometimes the electricity of an entire neighborhood block or city. The powerless feeling one gets when this happens is not that far from how I felt as a teenager, living two parallel but very separate lives in Eureka Springs: During the day the cheerleading captain, pom-poms, and prom plans in the back of my red convertible; at night, leaning close to the kerosene lamp that cast yellow light on my Algebra homework, and waiting for my bathwater to boil.  

Pop Culture: No electricity meant no TV, and in Arkansas I felt at a loss during daily conversations about the latest episode of whatever sitcom was popular that semester. Avoiding these conversations proved impossible, so I silenced the questions with a simple "We don't have cable". That always brought a round of sympathetic groans.

Now that I actually do have a television--a big silver Samsung carried by a former Russian boyfriend for an excruciating mile from the store to my apartment--there is absolutely nothing to watch. Russian sitcoms, or dubbed American or Spanish leftovers from the 80s, just aren't exciting. One loud monotone voice speaks for every man woman and child, and all expletives are translated as "Oh, darn!"  And no one here ever wants to talk about them later.  

Traffic: During the ten years that I lived there in the 80s and 90s, Eureka Springs didn't have a single traffic light. (Luckily, most local drivers originated from traffic-light cities, so they were familiar with the system when the first light was installed.) Moscow, in contrast, has thousands of lights, but drivers view them more as an obstacle or challenge than as a way to control municipal traffic flow. Two lanes of traffic spread into six lanes at the light, as drivers squeeze into ridiculous spaces in an attempt to achieve the optimal gate-break position when the light changes. White paint lines on the concrete, signaling where to stop for the light, have long ago faded from sight and memory.  

For some reason, Arkansas does not have yearly inspection of automotive emission standards. In Russian, there isn't a direct translation of "emission standards". The Russians call it "technical revie"--the review being just that, a technicality that can easily be avoided with a $100 bribe to the reviewer. After all, Russia is crossing its fingers for acceptance into the EU, and so must make a show of compliance with pristine European environmental standards.  

The main concern of those negotiating the tangled web of cobblestone streets and sparkling new highways is not the toxins their vehicles are hosing at pedestrians, but the wax and shine of their paint job and rims. Gucci handbags and Prada heels must be visibly reflected. The state of an ancient tailpipe, reattached to a car's undercarriage too many times with a rusty hanger, its holes plugged with various non-flammables, is not important as long as it not seen.  

Despite these inconveniences, or perhaps because of them, I'm still here. As an adult, unlike the child that grew up in the wilds of Arkansas, I am free to leave if I choose. But I stay, year after year, the long winters broken up by a month or two of sweltering summer heat. So despite swearing as a teenager that I would live a "normal life"--flush toilet and all--I have done just the opposite, and now one of the most backward cities on earth feels more like home than my old 72632 zip code.  

I do miss the smell of kerosene, though. And I have never slept as soundly as I did in Arkansas, with the cricket chorus performing outside my open window.

Author's Biography

Elizabeth Buchanan is a native of the United States, was born in New York, and grew up in Arkansas. 

She currently lives and works in Moscow, Russia, a city that has two seasons: winter and August. Elizabeth enjoys living outside of her native country, but sometimes wishes that she could trade the climate of Moscow for an empty beach and a laptop computer.  

E-mail Elizabeth.

Essay Reviews!

Want to read some? Or write some? Great! 
We need your input!

Site Reviews!

We'd like to know from our readers if they enjoy Seven Seas Magazine! Do you have praise or complaints? Suggestions or ideas? 
Would you like to read reviews by other readers? 
Please check out our Site Reviews Page

Get notified!

Would you like to get notified as soon as new Seven Seas issues are published on the Web?
Get notified!

Tell a friend!

Do you enjoy the Seven Seas site? 
Please tell a friend to stop by!
Tell a friend!

Go back to the table of contents
 of the current issue.

You just read essay # 7. Read essay #

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10