With nothing left to do, I headed up to my mother's place. I figured I should take care of this obligation early on in my stay. It would be insulting to put it off until much later. I had called her -- as always, she was at home, for some reason she quit working and was now home all the time. And I told her I would come up and visit. I'm usually happy to see her, as she can be very pleasant, but she's volatile and can go the other way, especially since the divorce with my father, it's like she's angry with the world and everyone in it. Furthermore, her apartment is completely inconveniently located, outside of Manhattan, practically in the suburbs.

I traveled far uptown on the subway, practially until the end of the subway line, then switched to a bus, then walked in the sweltering heat for 15 minutes to her building. It just seemed like such a tremendous journey to get to her, and I hated that I was so far from the center of the city, away from my friends, and stuck alone with her, especially should she decide to be unpleasant, then you were stuck enduring the long commute back into Manhattan, stewing in anger and depression. Somehow, my mother, more than anyone else I knew, had such a talent for making me feel bad about myself, and, she would often put her talents to use.

When I arrived at the door and rang the bell, I could hear the radio playing the NPR news loudly from the kitchen. She opened the door, looking pretty much the same as ever -- I gave her a hug somewhat uncomfortably, and proceeded to take off my shoes, a tradition I'd picked up from overseas.

"You look great," she said. "Even put on a little weight, no?"

I felt irritable from the heat in the apartment, that seemed even worse than the heat outside; there were tiny air-conditioners in the apartment that my parents had bought in the eary 80's, which we were never allowed to use, I don't even know why we had them. "What, was I supposed to look terrible or something?" I added defensively.

"No, I just figured that the conditions where you were living might not be so good."

"The conditions where I live are fine," I said. "It’s not like you’ve ever been there."

"It’s the third world, darling, it’s safe to assume, right?"

“It’s not the third world, first of all. Maybe it’s the second world. And anyway, in third world countries, in the capitals, the conditions are fine. The thing about the third world is that there’s a huge gap between the rich and poor – and the rich have all the good conditions and the poor have none. And I tend to live more like the rich. And we even have air-conditioning there, which some places in the first-world don't even seem to have."

“Oh honey, you’re so smart.” She said, sounding much like the way she might have said to me when I was 10 years old, putting her hand on my cheek. And then she added, “I haven’t really traveled very much. I really don’t know what I’m talking about,” which is the kind of thing she now says, since her children are grown up. And I immediately recognize that feeling I have, the way once I cross the threshold into my mother's pace, I revert back to being the child, back in my childhood home -- the one I spent my whole childhood dreaming of escaping. How far I had gone.

And I suppose it was the jet-lag that was making me so curt with her, I mean, I hadn't even been home for five minutes and I was starting to get short with her in what ordinarily would take a few hours, perhaps, years earlier. I would try to restrain myself, after all, I hadn’t seen my mother in nearly a year. And she was my mother -- and I only had one, which she reminded us often when she was incensed -- "you only have one mother, and I have other children." I walked into the kitchen, turned the radio volume down, which clearly bothered my mother, and looked in the refrigerator.

"Do you want something to eat?"

I surveyed the contents of the refrigerator. "I don't think so," I said.

"When did you get in?"

"Last night. In fact, I’m kind of tired, feeling the jet lag. I almost fell asleep on the subway. I need to sit down." I looked at the clock. "If I were in Tashkent at this time, I would be long asleep."

I walked into the living room and settled onto the sofa comfortably, brought an ottoman closer to put under my feet. I could see her looking disapprovingly – she never wanted family members to sit on the furniture. I closed my eyes. The furniture was only for guests. But, I’d been gone for so long and I was so tired that I decided to take the guest’s privilege.

"Are your pants clean?"

"My pants? What? Clean?" I said, trying, but not succeeding in restraining myself.

"You've probably been sitting on a subway seat on the way here and now you’re sitting on the clean sofa."

"Yes, I took a subway and sat down on a seat for about 30 minutes, then I took a bus, which was too crowded for me to sit down on, which was another 15 minutes, and then I walked for a few minutes. So, I'm tired and I'd like to sit down. Can I not sit down here?" I muttered.

She walked to a closet and produced a towel which she handed to me. "Can you please put this under you."

I was so irritated at that moment, and it crossed my mind that Uzbekistan was not such a bad place to be. Here is my home -- the most inhospitable place ever, more inhospitable than the dry heat of Uzbekistan's deserts. Even an Uzbek, a stranger, would be happier to see you, to receive you, if you came into their house off the street.  ¶ 9:34 PM