When I returned to my dorm, more like a communal apartment that a dorm, I was greeted by some professors from Moscow who would be staying in the apartment for a few days. They told me that a lot of people had been calling for me. Both Americans in town had called several times.
When I called Thomas, another PCV, he told me to turn on my TV, forgetting that I didn't own one. When he told me that the planes had crashed into the twin towers I thought he was lying. But why would someone joke about that?
I spent the next hour or so on the phone with people I knew in Russia. Americans and Russians alike. My Russian friends offered their condolances and for the first time since I had arrived I got the distinct impression that they felt sorry for the American.
The professors from Moscow asked what was going on, why were so many people calling. Not knowing the words for crash or fire or World Trade Center I did the best I could to explain the situation through Russian and mime. They seemed to understand and offered their sympathies in the form of vodka and dried fish. I will never forget the sight and sound of those two drunk Russian professors, standing and toasting to American and singing my National Anthem in broken English. They butchered the language and the song but I'm not so sure I have ever heard it sung with more emotion.