wing wah travel

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Founded in Yuen Long in 1950 as a Chinese restaurant-cum-bakery, Wing Wah is one of Hong Kong's earliest and most important catering groups. In addition to its restaurants, traditional Chinese wedding cakes and preserved meat products, the group has diversified into the production of a wide range of Chinese and Western bakery products and health foods.

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[email protected]

Location(s):

phone-handset 28166480

phone-handset 25111358

phone-handset 23865155

phone-handset 25527363

phone-handset 28110545

phone-handset 25138618

phone-handset 24770836

phone-handset 24769966

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User reviews

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COVENTRY BOOKING

To ensure a wonderful dining experience for groups of 10 or more, we kindly request a small deposit of £5 per person. This deposit will be credited towards your final bill and helps us prepare to serve you the best Chinese cuisine in town!

4.4 x Star (430+) • £2.60 Delivery Fee • 5275 mi • Chinese • Group Friendly • $$ • Info

Min order value for this shop is £14

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1 Swan Road,

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£2.60 Delivery Fee

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1 Swan Road

Gloucester, EMEA

Too far to deliver

Opens at 4:30 PM

16:30 - 23:00

16:15 - 23:30

4:30 PM – 11:00 PM

Appetisers and Soups

Sweet and sour dishes, curry dishes - large, chop suey dishes, egg foo yung dishes, fried rice dishes - large, chow mein dishes, tomato and chilli dishes, garlic and chilli dishes, ginger and spring onion dishes, english dishes, extra portions, all in one dishes, special set menu, roast duck dishes, king prawn dishes, beef dishes, chicken dishes, roast pork dishes, oyster sauce dishes, hoi sin sauce, green pepper and black bean sauce, kung po dishes, szechuan dishes, peking dishes, satay dishes, black pepper dishes, drinks and other, chef's set dinners, frequently asked questions, can i order wing wah delivery in gloucester with uber eats.

Yes. Wing Wah delivery is available on Uber Eats in Gloucester.

Is Wing Wah delivery available near me?

Enter your address to see if Wing Wah delivery is available to your location in Gloucester.

How do I order Wing Wah delivery online in Gloucester?

There are 2 ways to place an order on Uber Eats: on the app or online using the Uber Eats website. After you’ve looked over the Wing Wah menu, simply choose the items you’d like to order and add them to your cart. Next, you’ll be able to review, place, and track your order.

Where can I find Wing Wah online menu prices?

View upfront pricing information for the various items offered by Wing Wah here on this page.

How do I get free delivery on my Wing Wah order?

To save money on the delivery, consider getting an Uber One membership, if available in your area, as one of its perks is a £0 Delivery Fee on select orders.

How do I pay for my Wing Wah order?

Payment is handled via your Uber Eats account.

What’s the best thing to order for Wing Wah delivery in Gloucester?

If you’re in need of some suggestions for your Wing Wah order, check out the items showcased in Picked for you” on this page.

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Review Highlights

“ the food is made Fresh on the same day.. ” in 2 reviews

“ Quick service , delicious, great sized portions. ” in 2 reviews

“ i always get the orange chicken (comes out to about 11 bucks, served with white rice ) but today I tried the orange chicken lunch special ($7. ” in 2 reviews

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Location & Hours

Suggest an edit

6452 W 63rd St

Chicago, IL 60638

Nagle Ave & Natchez Ave

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Shelly A. said "I travel for work so needless to say I eat out quite a bit. I always check for reviews of the restaurants I pick before I order out/go to. I have been in the mood for chinese food and was told to try out a local place (not this one)…" read more

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tera m. said "Found this place last night while looking for a restaurant open past 9pm. I am celiac so to walk in and see a sign stating everything in the restaurant is gluten free was unexpected and awesome. The staff was super kind, very…" read more

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Overall rating

Inexpensive and hit the spot. Yummy American Chinese food. Better than Panda Express. Portion are large.

Hot and Sour soup

Wing Wah fried rice. Yummy.

Place was dirty food tasted like it was reheated and not cooked fresh. Threw most of it in the garbage.

No indoor seating, does not look clean through the window. Doors are locked even when the times listed on the sign said they should be open

I noticed I haven't updated my rating in some time. Today I ordered sweet and sour chicken, beef chop suey and shrimp fried rice. Everything was nice and hot and pretty tasty as always. The sweet and sour sauce is always perfect, I really don't like too sweet tasting sauces and this sauce is perfect for me. I've been coming to this restaurant for years and the people here are always pleasant and hard working.

I like this place because of the convenience and the food is okay too. I really like the egg foo young. I don't mind the beef chop Suey either it's probably what I order the most from this restaurant.

Pass this place up. They don't seem to use a knife to cut anything up, so it is a chunk of this and a chunk of that in their combination dinners. Crab rangoons and egg rolls are smaller and lack flavor. Won't be going back.

First time here and it's amazing, order was ready right on time I called it in ahead 10mins before. Nice and hot and very flavorful and I also think their hot oil sauce is better than any other one I've tried around the area. Will order again!!! Total was 24 with two Pepsi's as well. YUM

I went here for dinner today. This is near where I live, so we decided to go here. Good service, and fast timing. I ordered chicken noodles, which is noodles and chicken. I also ordered crab rangoon. I loved crab rangoon all my life. Crab Rangoon tasted good. The noodles were bland on my entree and the chicken had some flavor. I also tried beef and noodles. Beef was tender and had good flavor. Noodles tasted good too. I had a good experience, but the place needs to have more flavor in the noodles. Otherwise, I will come back again.

Yummy noodles and chicken with crab Rangoon.

I ordered Shrimp fried rice, orange chicken and beef chop suey There was no flavor to the food at all. I called up to complain and all they said was " sorry, everything is the same". ??? I don't think I'll be coming back here.

OMG !!! The Best Combination Lo Mien around food service price truly On Point!!!!!Fresh, Hot , delivery

This is my standard Chinese food restaurant. Lunch combos come with chicken fried rice,entree , egg roll and a canned drink. I would recommend it if you want Chinese food in the Clearing area but not the end all be all of chinese food.

1 other review that is not currently recommended

P.F. Chang’s

Kae H. said "The wait here can get insane! The last three times my husband and I have been here, we were told we'd have over an hour wait but managed to snag a bar table in less than 5. Score! We always share the meal for 2 for $40 which comes…" read more

in Asian Fusion, Chinese

Nick & Bruno’s Pizzeria

J J. said "Great pizza, but sub par service. Stopped by after work to pick up my pizza and seafood platter that I had ordered 20 min before. I was told it would be 15 min ended up being closer to 40 min. When I got there they had my pizza…" read more

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Wing Wah Noodle Shop 永華麵家 – One Of The Best Wanton Noodle Shops In Hong Kong Closing End August

[Hong Kong] Wing Wah Noodle Shop 永華麵家 has been reported to close soon, with its last date of operation set on the 31st of August.

This is after 68 years of being in the business.

The 3rd generation owner Tse Sau-Hong commented that she was “feeling old and wanted to retire” and that business has fallen after the Immigration Department moved their offices away from Wan Chai.

Long queues are expected.

[Original Entry] After trying out most of the Mak’s Noodle shops ( Mak’s Noodles , Mak Siu Kee , Mak Man Kee and a couple more), I decided to venture to a non-Mak wanton noodle shop.

Wing Wah Noodle Shop 永華麵家 located at Hennessy Road, Wan Chai has been in operations for more than 50 years. Perhaps still slightly under the radar, at least for tourists.

(Note: Not to be confused with the other Wing Wah 榮華 known for their cookies.)

It was only after I entered the shop, then I realised it was also awarded a Bib Gourmand in the Hong Kong Michelin Guide .

The noodles are still made by hand, kneaded using bamboo upstairs.

Interestingly, the “live kitchen” cooking area located near the entrance was half-covered by magazine articles of their accolades, perhaps to avoid people from prying inside.

The Shrimp Wanton Noodles at HK$44 (SGD7.40, USD5.60) is also one of their priciest around, for a humble-looking shop of this nature.

Other items on the menu included Shrimp Dumpling Noodles (HK$46), Braised Pig Knuckle (HK$48), Hot Chilli Sauce with Sliced Pork Noodle (HK$48) – I heard this was one of the best items here from the grapevine, and Braised Beef Tendon & Brisket Noodles (HK$80).

The hot, piping bowl of Wanton Noodles soon arrived on the table just moments after ordering. I looked at the simplicity of it, with dumplings ‘buried’ under the noodles.

Took a few shots, and quickly took a bit of the noodles…

”Oh, holy.”

The egg noodles were really delicious stuff. It was cooked so al dente with a springy texture I never had before. I could use the word “crunchy” to describe its mouth-fee.

Well, I could imagine some people complaining that the noodles were hard, but I thought that was the beauty.

The soup was clear and tasty, the bite-sized wontons with minced pork and shrimp were not bad, but truth be told nothing to shout about.

It was all about the noodles – a class of its own.

Wing Wah Noodle Shop永華麵家 89 Hennessy Road, Wan Chai (Wan Chai MTR Station Exit B1) 灣仔軒尼詩道89號地下 Tel: +852 2527 7476 Opening Hours: 11:30am – 1:30am (Mon – Sat), Closed Sun Google Maps – Wing Wah Noodle Shop 永華麵家

Other Related Entries Mak’s Noodles 麥奀雲吞麵世家 (Central, Hong Kong) Mak Siu Kee 麥兆記雲吞麵 (Wan Chai, Hong Kong) Mak Man Kee 麥文記麵家 (Jordan, Hong Kong) Ho Hung Kee 何洪记 (Causeway Bay, Hong Kong Tsim Chai Kee 沾仔记 (Central, Hong Kong)

Click HERE for other HONG KONG Food Entries

* Follow @DanielFoodDiary on Facebook , Instagram and Youtube for more food news, food videos and travel highlights. Daniel’s Food Diary paid for food reviewed unless otherwise stated.

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Dell Cameron

The Julian Assange Saga Is Finally Over

United States prosecutors have secured a deal with WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange requiring the long-embattled publisher to plead guilty to one count of espionage for his role in making public classified documents concerning the US wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

The agreement, which follows more than a decade of efforts by Assange, 52, to avoid extradition from the United Kingdom, would draw to a close one of the longest-running national security investigations in US history. The deal was first disclosed in court documents made public in the UK.

Assange and his legal team, which have denied the accusations levied by the US, could not be immediately reached for comment.

“Julian Assange is free,” WikiLeaks wrote in a statement posted to X . “He left Belmarsh maximum security prison on the morning of 24 June, after having spent 1901 days there.”

A letter US prosecutors filed in the US District Court for the Northern Mariana Islands on Monday indicates that Assange will enter his guilty plea at a Wednesday hearing in Sapian, the island territory’s capital, having refused to travel to the continental US. He is then expected to return to his home country of Australia, having already served the expected 62-month sentence in London prison.

The case against Assange centers around the publishing of more than 750,000 stolen US documents by WikiLeaks between 2009 and 2011. It has drawn enormous attention for its clear implications on press freedoms internationally. Organizations such as the Committee to Protect Journalists in the US have for years warned the case could severely imperil the ability of journalists to obtain and publish classified information—even though the nation’s highest court has long recognized the right of journalists to do so.

Ahead of the 2016 US presidential election between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, WikiLeaks published a trove of emails stolen from the Democratic National Committee. The leak, which embarrassed the DNC and won Assange praise from right-wing figures, was later revealed to be the work of notorious Russian hacking groups known as Cozy Bear and Fancy Bear, both affiliated with Moscow’s GRU military intelligence agency.

US prosecutors initially charged Assange with a single count under the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act for allegedly conspiring with Chelsea Manning, who provided WikiLeaks with the trove of classified material related to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to gain unauthorized access to government computers. Prosecutors later added an additional 17 charges under the Espionage Act—a move widely condemned as an attack on the free press.

Assange, forcibly removed from the Ecuadorian embassy in London in 2019 after seven years asylum, has been held in Belmarsh prison in London pending the outcome of his extradition hearings, which were delayed repeatedly over the course of the Covid-19 pandemic. His attorneys argued that due to his deteriorating mental health, extradition to the US would increase the likelihood of suicide.

US prosecutors secured, on appeal, permission to extradite the award-winning journalist, who married his longtime partner, Stella Moris, while in jail in 2022, by offering UK courts a slate of written assurances. Among other concessions, the US promised not to subject Assange to “special administration measures,” a term referring to the practice of wiretapping certain defendants’ phone calls citing national security concerns.

“This period of our lives, I’m confident now, has come to an end,” said Moris—now Assange—in a video prerecorded last week . “I think by this time next week, Julian will be free.”

Kristinn Hrafnsson, WikiLeaks editor in chief, said in the same video captured outside Belmarsh that he hoped to see Assange for the last time inside its walls. “If you’re seeing this, it means he is out.”

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2018 Primetime Emmy & James Beard Award Winner

The Last Flight out of Moscow

Sep 15 2015.

When Delta ended its direct route to JFK, it represented the end of an era for longtime Russia expats like Resa Alboher

Earlier this year, Delta Airlines announced that it would be discontinuing its direct flight to Moscow from JFK this September through to at least the end of the year. I had taken that famed flight back and forth so often that Delta had become another home to me. First in the old business class configuration where my husband John and I most often sat in our favorite seats—row 5, seats A and B—and then when all the frequent flier miles ran out, in any exit row seats we could muster. The last direct Delta flight I took out of Russia in the spring of 2014 was on a ticket purchased at the very last minute in panicked response to an emergency.

At that time, John was in the U.S. after having been laid off from a position he had held for ten years. I was still in Moscow, pretty broke and teaching American writing at the Humanities University, when I found out that John was being rushed to the hospital in New York City. You should come here right away, my nephew texted to my Russian cell phone.

A friend in New York bought me a $600 ticket on Delta. I chose an emergency row seat with a lot of legroom. A Russian dude—beefy, attractive, with light blue eyes—was next to me in the window seat. Across the aisle was a kindly babushka who rarely flew and was afraid of flying.  Ya baius’,  she said to me—I’m scared—and reached across the aisle so I could hold her hand during takeoff.

At Sheremetyevo and at most airports in Russia, there are kiosks where you can buy Russian Orthodox icons. For a long time I would carry an icon or two whenever I traveled anywhere. Russia can make you superstitious. After two decades of living there, I cannot kiss or shake hands across a threshold or forget to look in the mirror before I go out, and it is physically impossible for me to go on a trip without sitting for a moment with my suitcase before I leave. In fact, it is only by living in Russia that I finally understood the poignancy of the scene at the end of Chekhov’s  The Cherry Orchard  when Lubov Andreyevna and her family leave their ancestral house for the last time. They sit for a moment with their suitcases, then linger, knowing they will never return. That is my fear about leaving Russia. Or leaving anywhere. Armed with icons, I am still afraid.

This last Delta flight had something of the epic to it. As the flight progressed, I was worried about John in the hospital. I paced out of anxiety and had an argument with him in my head.  You are always stubborn and wait till you are near death to see a doctor,  I said to John. I had been up all night on the phone with relatives and ambulance drivers, arguing with the real John who didn’t want to go to the hospital. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was walk up and down the aisles having my imaginary argument with John until the plane landed. But in the section right before Business Elite a guy with a shaved head and what looked liked prison tattoos blocked my way. He wore military fatigues and was harassing a woman who was pointedly ignoring him as he said to me:

Where are you going? Where is there to go? Don’t go up there. Don’t you see that curtain? That is where the bluebloods sit. All the rich oligarchs and Jews. Don’t oligarchs have their own planes?  Good point,  he said,  but I don’t even want to talk with you. You are an American. Good you are going home. I want all the foreigners to go home.  Then why are  you  leaving the Rodina?  He was surprised.  How is it you know the concept of Rodina?  He paused, standing unsteadily on his feet.  The Motherland. Nothing in your English invokes this Russian word. You are a young country, a bunch of babies, what the hell do you know from Rodina? I lived in the Rodina over twenty years. Twenty years—twenty years are you telling me? How is that possible, your Russian totally blows. How is it you aren’t ashamed of yourself?  Actually I am,  I said.  I want to speak better Russian.  Well, we are speaking it now, and while your Russian sucks, I do sort of understand what you are saying, even though you have the accent of a Jew.

I met a man in the early 1990s who had been tortured by Russian speech therapists when he was a boy to roll his r’s so he didn’t sound like a Jew. He told us the story one night at a Russian banya party while we ate iced watermelon and drank horseradish vodka.  Oh it was awful,  he said.  The teacher stuffed pencils in my mouth. Now say reka. Ryba. Roman. But I could hardly say anything at all with all those pencils in my mouth.  He remembered spitting and nearly choking on pencils. He remembered the taste of lead.

The Russian nationalist continued speaking. You are a short woman. I am not attracted to you at all. You are my age, and might be even older. What are you, 48, 49? Something like that. I only like younger women and don’t like wrinkles and well, in this light, I can see you are starting to get some. I am not available anyway. Oh good. I don’t want to offend you. You don’t?  You know though, you  look  like a Jew . That’s OK, I  am  a Jew. You are a  Jew? He paused, then with a flourish said,  I am an anti-Semite. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Anti-Semite.  There was an uncomfortable silence, then something in his face softened as if he had made a decision. I like you,  he said. How could you? I am a Jew.  He laughed. Flying over Iceland, the Jew and the anti-Semite were on their way from the old world to the new.

John and I moved to Russia over two decades ago. He had studied Soviet Foreign Policy when there was still a Soviet Union. A few months after our first trip together to Moscow in the summer of 1990, the old empire began to collapse. John felt he couldn’t sit idly by in the U.S., watching the news on CNN. He wanted to be there in the midst of change.

While Moscow was the center of unfolding events in Russia, the first city we lived in was St Petersburg. Even with the post-Perestroika economy imploding, shops empty and people’s pensions wiped away, there was still a fervor in the St Petersburg arts and culture scene—an excitement I had never witnessed before and will probably never get to see again. Piter seemed central enough to me.

IN RUSSIAN SLANG IT TRANSLATES TO SOMETHING LIKE DORMITORY SHITHOLE

We were broke and living in the faculty side of a dormitory, called an  obshaga in Russian slang, which translates to something like “dormitory shithole.” Our  obshaga  rooms were nicer than the rooms the students got, but you had to tape up the windows from early autumn to the hesitant summer which began a month later than Moscow’s summer (we were so close to the Arctic Circle) to keep out the icy wind blowing in from the Gulf of Finland.

At some point, not the single year as planned, but maybe six limping years later, John got completely fed up. We were doing our laundry in the bathtub and the water was a perennial rusty brown. We had no kitchen and even with the taped up windows the cold wind cut through in a constant slow whistling howl. As I hung the laundry all over the room, John was cutting carrots on top of the Belarusian mini fridge that kept icing over no matter how many times we tried to defrost it. That’s it, he said, I’m outta here.

We returned to New York, but not long afterwards John was offered a position in Moscow. He came to Moscow first to find us an apartment, and I followed several months later. I remember that flight to Moscow as one of the most comfortable I had ever taken—I stretched out and slept across the Atlantic. John’s new job paid for business class tickets and sometimes we could upgrade to first. So for a while we flew British Airways in splendor back and forth. I drank smoothies and watched British comedies. In first class, they would give us pajamas and our choice of DVDs. I felt someone had made a big mistake letting us fly in such grandeur.

The other day I asked John, When did it shift? When did we start flying Delta? At that time in the mid nineties, Delta was the only U.S. carrier that offered nonstop service to Moscow. He thought for a moment: 1998. The financial crash. When the Gekko markets fell. You know, when everybody blamed George Soros. And when expats left in droves?

I remember the bank runs. I watched them from our windows that looked over the Garden Ring Road across to a bank on the other side, the desperate crowds outside the building trying to withdraw their funds. I thought of my parent’s childhood memories about living through the Great Depression. I was witnessing something like that as we continued living a normal life in Moscow.

We had the fortune of being able to escape and return more or less as we pleased. We ate ice cream sundaes on Delta Business Elite, watched movies and after a few runs across the planet and back found that we had our favorite and habitual row—row 5 seats A and B. As the plane took off, I would say Buddhist sutras quietly to myself and hold John’s hand. I love you, I’d say as the plane ascended. If the plane were to crash, I wanted him to know this. Everything’s OK, he’d say, but a few minutes into the flight when we had reached cruising altitude, almost like clockwork he’d turn to me and say, I’m bored. Shouldn’t they be bringing drinks and warmed mixed nuts by now?

Not all our comings and goings from Russia were in such luxury or with such ease. When John and I departed the first time, after traveling with a student group in the summer of 1990, we left by train from the Finland Station, where Lenin arrived to start the revolution. I was having trouble carrying my suitcases through the crowded streets and something in me gave way. I threw down the bags and wept. Something about the weight of our possessions made me snap. It was like I felt the burden of all those before us who had to leave Russia and could bring only a few suitcases with them.

Maybe my grandfather felt that way when he left. I never met him since he died before I was born, so I can only imagine what he went through when he travelled by ship from Odessa (in his time part of Russia) to Ellis Island. My mother felt like she belonged in Russia on her one trip to St Petersburg in the mid 1990s. I feel closer to my father here, she said with a kind of longing. Her side of the family wasn’t as happy I was living in Russia, always reminding me of the pogroms and anti-Semitic persecution that forced my grandfather to flee.

In my mind, I felt that my living in Russia could be a sort of reconciliation with the horrific bigotry my ancestors once faced. The simple fact of my residence in Moscow would be an act of forgiveness, wiping the slate clean. Whenever the plane began its descent into Moscow, I always felt like I was returning to holy ground.

I would argue with a friend about the soulfulness of Russia. That is such a myth, she once told me, the myth of the  rodina , of the Russian soul. I would insist that Russia is mythic, that there is something to the Russian soul. My friend would sigh and shake her head. You are deluding yourself, she said. Lately I have started to wonder what it would be like to put down roots. I thought I was putting down roots in Russia, but I was always a foreigner there. At times a welcome one, but a foreigner all the same.

Flying on Delta, I once had a memorable and heart-stopping arrival. We were about to land at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport one January morning. I felt the wave of relief I usually feel especially in winter when I see the frozen Moscow River below and the city as a kind of snowy topographical map, its white geometrical shapes forming a Malevich-esque painting.

As the falling snow pelted the windows, the plane suddenly heaved up in a dramatic rush. We all fell backwards and heard carry-on bags crashing from the overhead compartments and a huge bang when a service cart fell out of its storage area and went flying down the aisle. People around us screamed. I don’t remember if I screamed too, but I remember clutching John’s hand. And then we were horizontal again, back up in the clouds. The pilot made an announcement. Sorry about that, folks. We were almost there, but there was an unscheduled plane on the runway. Our pilot had avoided a collision. I saw passengers crossing themselves as his announcement was translated into Russian.

Now on my last direct Delta flight back to JFK, the Russian nationalist and I both looked out the window over the head of the woman who he had been harassing. The sun was creating a blinding glare and I thought: We are doing a form of time travel, flying backward in time from the Moscow late afternoon, toward what was morning now in New York City. The woman was pretending to sleep. And everyone else in this forward cabin, this cabin behind where the bluebloods ate their ice cream sundaes and reclined on their flatbed seats, was looking pointedly away from us. The nationalist was drunk. He wasn’t the first nationalist or anti-Semite I had met in my life. But he was the one blocking me from pacing back and forth.

So, do you think I am attractive?  You’re OK,  I said, and he said  you’re OK too . And then he moved in closer, I could feel his hot breath as he whispered: Can you believe it, this young girl Masha—she was all of 18—we sat on a bench in Sokolniki Park and kissed half the night. Do you know what an 18-year-old kisses like? Then we walked all over the city and at dawn went along the river toward the Kremlin—have you seen our Kremlin? Come on, that’s ridiculous how can you ask that?  He apologized and seemed even more unsteady on his feet.

You could hear the bells of the Spassky Tower. We looked at our Kremlin, and I almost missed this flight.  Can you imagine, 18… I am a Nationalist. We were at the Kremlin. I saw the Kremlin this morning. And kissed a girl of 18. I am proud to be Russian.

The plane went through a bit of turbulence. There was an announcement in English then in Russian for us to take our seats. The Nationalist took my arm, maybe to steady himself.

I don’t need to take my seat,  he said,  a little turbulence doesn’t scare me at all. But are you scared,  he asked. I was scared of so many things.  You know,  he said,  actually, it is good talking with you. I will find you again. I’ll come visit you later in the flight. I know where you are sitting. I know your row. You have a lot of room around you. How did you get that seat?

I held on to the backs of seats to steady myself through the turbulence as I walked back to my exit row and felt a deep exhaustion. The beefy dude was resting his head on a pillow against the windowsill. You could see pure sky and clouds. Were we still somewhere over Iceland? In 2005, soon after my father died, I saw the wonder of the northern lights over Iceland and John and I watched the dazzling green flashes igniting the dark as the rest of the plane slept all around us in their flatbed seats. I wept then for my father, but now I worried for John. The plane was flying into more daylight, and when I got to NYC it would be more daylight still, and I would sit in a hospital as I had sat in so many these past few years.

What was I doing with my life? I had been in the Rodina twenty years and still could hardly speak passable Russian—the Nationalist was right. I was a foreigner. Always would be one. I thought about other foreigners and their miserable fates. Rastrelli came to mind; his architecture gave Petersburg its character, yet he died penniless and forgotten. I thought of how in the novel  Honey for the Bears  a British antiques dealer is done in by Russia. Has Russia done me in? I wondered. I will never quite belong in Russia, but it is difficult to live anywhere else.

The other day, I felt a wave of relief going to a Russian store in the United States. They had Chudo Yagoda juice and cranberry  mors . They had Russian chocolates— Mishka—my favorite kind. But these are meager symbols to carry such a heavy sense of belonging. When the Nationalist came to my seat to find me, I pretended I didn’t see him. He lingered for a moment and then walked on by.

I plan to go back to Russia. I keep telling myself there is a lot left unfinished. Lectures I am supposed to give, museums I still need to visit, didn’t I want to see the Marina Tsvetaeva house, and in twenty years in Russia I have yet to visit Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy’s country estate. John and I spent twenty years talking about going there. I’ll only agree to see Yasnaya Polyana if I can see it with him.

With the ruble unstable, and sanctions and tensions over Ukraine, the flights on Delta lately have had too many empty seats—a logical reason for their cancellation—but I hope that Delta revises this decision. There is only one Delta flight:  The  Delta Flight as expats call it. And on that flight, those few hours in the air were a kind of freedom, a relief from the confusions of a life abroad. On the Delta flight I was more at home than in either country the plane would take me.

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