As eager as we are to greet our new crewmates, we need to make sure the seal between the Soyuz and ISS is good. The leak checks take nearly two hours. The space between the two docking compartments has to be filled with air, which we then test to determine whether its pressure is dropping. If it is, we don’t have a good seal, and opening the hatch will cause ISS and Soyuz to lose their atmosphere. Occasionally, as we wait, we hear the crew on the other side banging on the hatch in a friendly greeting. We bang back.
The leak check finally complete, Gennady opens the hatch on our side. Anton Shkaplerov, the only cosmonaut on board the ISS, opens the Russian hatch on their side. I smell something strangely familiar and unmistakable, a strong burned metal smell, like the smell of sparklers on the Fourth of July. Objects that have been exposed to the vacuum of space have this unique smell on them, like the smell of welding—the smell of space.
There are three people up here already: the commander and the only other American, Terry Virts (forty-seven); Anton (forty-three); and an Italian astronaut representing the European Space Agency, Samantha Cristoforetti (thirty-seven). I know them all, some much better than others. Soon, we will all know one another much better. I’ve known Terry since he was selected as an astronaut in 2000, though we haven’t overlapped much in our work. Anton and Samantha I’ve only gotten to know well since we’ve been preparing for this mission over the last year. The last time I hung out with Anton was in Houston, before my last flight. We both got pretty drunk at my neighborhood bar, Boondoggles, and later ended up spending the night at a friend’s house nearby since neither of us was in shape to drive.
Over the course of this year in space, Misha and I will see a total of thirteen other people come and go. In June, a Soyuz will leave with Terry, Samantha, and Anton, to be replaced by a new crew of three in July. In September, three more will join us, bringing our total to nine—an unusual number—for just ten days. Then, in December, three will leave, to be replaced a few days later. Misha and I hope that the change in crew members will help break up the mission and the monotony to make our year less challenging.
Unlike the early days of spaceflight, when piloting skill was what mattered, twenty-first-century astronauts are chosen for our ability to perform a lot of different jobs and to get along well with others, especially in stressful and cramped circumstances for long periods of time. Each of my crewmates is not only a close coworker in an array of different high-intensity jobs but also a roommate and a surrogate for all humanity.
Gennady floats through the hatch first and hugs Anton. These greetings are always jubilant—we know exactly who we’re going to see when we open the hatch, but still it’s somehow startling to launch off the Earth, travel to space, and find friends already living up here. The big hugs and big smiles you see if you watch the hatch opening live on NASA TV are completely sincere. As Gennady and Anton say their hellos, Misha and I are waiting our turns. We know that many people on the ground are watching, including our families. There is a live feed playing for everyone at Baikonur, as well as in mission control in Houston and online. The video signal is bounced off a satellite and then down to Earth, as with all of our communications. Suddenly I get an idea and turn to Misha.
“Let’s go through together,” I suggest. “As a show of solidarity.”
“Good idea, my brother. We are in this together.”
It’s a bit awkward floating through the small hatch together, but the gesture gets a big smile from everyone on the other side. Once we’re through, I shake hands with Anton.
Next I give Terry Virts a hug, then Samantha Cristoforetti. She is the first Italian woman to fly in space, and soon she’ll be the record holder for the longest single spaceflight by a woman.
Our families in Baikonur are waiting to have a conference call with us, which we’ll do from the Russian service module. I float down there and make a wrong turn. It’s weird to be back here—floating through the station is so familiar, but it’s also disorienting. It’s only day one.
As the smell of space dissipates, I’m starting to detect the unique smell of the ISS, as familiar as the smell of my childhood home. The smell is mostly the off-gassing from the equipment and everything else, which on Earth we call the new car smell. Up here the smell is stronger because the plastic particles are weightless, as is the air, so they mingle in every breath. There is also the faint scent of garbage and a whiff of body odor. Even though we seal up the trash as well as we can, we only get rid of it every few months when a resupply craft reaches us and becomes a garbage truck after we empty it of cargo.
The sound of fans and the hum of electronics are both loud and inescapable. I feel like I have to raise my voice to be heard above the noise, though I know from experience I’ll get used to it. This part of the Russian segment is especially loud. It’s dark and a bit cold as well. I feel a shiver of realization: I’m going to be up here for nearly a year. What exactly have I gotten myself into? It occurs to me for a moment that this might be one of the stupider things I’ve ever done.
When we reach the service module, I notice right away that it’s much brighter than when I was here last. Apparently the Russians have improved their lightbulbs. It’s also much better organized than I remember, which I suspect is a result of Anton trying to impress Gennady with his organizational skills. Gennady is a stickler for keeping the Russian segment neat and tidy.
During the conference call, our families can see and hear us, but we can only hear them. There is a loud echo. The comm configuration up here is slightly off. I hear Charlotte telling me what the launch was like, then I talk briefly to my daughter Samantha and then to Amiko. It’s great to hear their voices. But I’m conscious that my Russian colleagues are waiting to talk to their families, too.
Once we finish the call, I head down to the U.S. segment with Terry and Samantha Cristoforetti, where I’m going to spend the better part of the year to come. Though ISS is all one facility, for the most part the Russians live and work on their side and everyone else lives and works on the other side—“the U.S. segment.” I notice it’s much darker than I remember—burned-out lightbulbs haven’t been replaced. This isn’t Terry and Samantha’s fault, but a reflection of the conservative way the control center has come to manage our consumables since I was last here. I decide to make it a project over the coming months to improve how we use our resources, since I’m going to be up here for so long, and good lighting will be critical to my well-being.