THERE’S NO SPACE LIKE HOME¶
For 13 years, 20 astronauts
typed their joy, pain, an-
noyance, elation, boredom,
anger, contentment, and
loneliness into massive
files that, by Stuster’s estimate, could fill two
Russian novels he alone would read. “They
might not confess their frailties to their col-
leagues or their flight surgeon, but they did
to me,” says Stuster of the material for the
two studies he completed, first from 2003 to
2010, then 2011 to 2016. With the data dumps
complete, he could start looking for trends.
No surprise, the novelty of space travel
eventually wore off as newer ISS crewmem-
bers got used to watching the great world
spin below. “I don’t quite feel the com-
pulsion to head to the cupola every spare
second anymore,” a diarist wrote about the
seven-windowed domed module. “Not say-
ing the view isn’t amazing, it is, but I don’t
feel that curiosity quite as much.”
Still, the ISS offered other new experi-
ences, including tethering oneself to the
hull and floating in the cosmos. If those
activities didn’t happen, though, dis-
appointment could hit hard. “I’ve been
avoiding the journal,” confessed a partici-
pant when NASA canceled their spacewalk,
which, they noted, “is a bit of a dagger in
the heart.” The crewmember, channeling
optimism, recounted the positives: safety
and health first. Still, it took two days to put
away all the equipment and tear down the
riggings. “Let me tell you, that sucked.”
Even when time passed as planned, work
always floated to top of mind—as did its con-
straints. “Today was a hard day,” someone
wrote. “Small things are getting to me. I am
tired. I think that the ground is scheduling
less time for tasks than before.” Another di-
arist noted that it sometimes seemed like
Mission Control didn’t have a clue what
things were actually like out in space: “Only
30 minutes to execute a 55-step procedure
that required collecting 21 items.”
Clearly, Anderson wasn’t the only
crewmember displeased with NASA’s in-
scrutable ways. How many people does it
take to change a lightbulb on the ISS? Just
one—but a lot of effort. “I had to have safety
glasses and a vacuum cleaner handy,” a
frustrated flier wrote. But the bulb was al-
ready in a plastic case that would have
contained any shards if it broke. “Also, I had
to take a photo of the installed bulb before
turning it on,” they added. “Why? I have no
idea! It’s just the way NASA does things.”
The tedium compounded quickly. “I be-
come more convinced every day that we
sacrifice crew efficiency and time on or-
bit to make things easier/cheaper for the
ground,” someone grumbled about being
forced to do a “consumables audit”: open-
ing bags of supplies, removing and counting
everything, then putting it all back—rather
than keeping track as they used items.
Those processes could also prove
worthless. Once, due to a NASA miscommu-
nication, main courses would be used up two
weeks before a resupply arrived. “We should
not have complained about chicken, since
that chicken may soon run out!” a crew-
member opined. Another, during a nutrition
shortage, lamented the results of calorie re-
striction. “It makes a big difference whether
one is choosing to lose the weight or if one is
being forced,” they wrote, hangrily.ISS residents could also annoy one an-
other—both online and in real life. When
an astronaut was livestreaming or be-
came internet famous, teammates would
grow resentful of the work their colleague
missed. They also experienced the “she’s
breathing on me” difficulties akin to sib-
lings on weekend road trips. “I think I do
need to get out of here,” a journal-keeper
admitted. “Living in close quarters with
people over a long period of time, even
things that normally wouldn’t bother you
much at all can bother you after a while.”
Orbiting teams didn’t always complain,
though. Lighter fare included floating com-
petitions to see who could do the illest tricks.
One ISS resident, undressing in a room with
a view, told crewmates they were mooning
the world. Journals recounted American and
Russian crews watching the Stanley Kubrick
classic 2001: A Space Odyssey together.
On another occasion, a science- fiction-
literate astronaut made uninitiated team
members screen all the Star Trek movies. The
first time Spock gave the V-shaped Vulcan sa-
lute, the group spontaneously attempted the
gesture. “To see them doing something for
the first time that I did for the first time about
40 years ago was unbelievably funny and
nostalgic,” this person wrote.
Taking and sharing photographs was also
a prime joy. One shutterbug tried for a week
to catch Kerguelen Island, a French station
in Antarctica, where researchers also toil
in isolation. Finally, they spotted it, and
successfully snapped an image of their an-
alogs. “I think I’ll try to email it to the folks
there,” they wrote.
Seeing Earth from above, as a border-
less planet in blank space, also causes
a mood shift that psychologists call the
overview effect. With our orb in its proper
(insignificant) cosmic context, national
boundaries become social constructs, and
viewers come to value the globe as beau-
tiful, fragile, and worth caring for. As one
astronaut put it, “I think I’m going to spend
the rest of my life trying to understand what
I saw here every day for 6 months.”
Throughout it all, the planet below held
its appeal. “My list of things I miss the most
has grown,” someone wrote. “Family first,
then a shower, then a latte, then rain.... I
miss being under a blanket of clouds and
guess I’ll always be a child of the Earth.”“my list of things
i miss the most has
grown,” wrote one
iss crewmember.
“family first, then
a shower, then a
latte, then rain.”
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