Sochi, Russia

Emotionless dogs sit astray amongst the midnight stars

Of Sochi and cry at night, bark and fight

Their noise echoes with the roosters through the valley between

The mountain and the sea

Prototypes of paradise

Mass surrenders to little lies

Parachutes made of rotting rope

Nothing hastens lost hope

I have to write to you now, early in the morning, before my brain turns on, while my sleepy mind, void of analysis, is in control and thoughts are few and far in between. I believe that the persistent, critical mind is always the demise of artists, writers, musicians. Thoughts get in the way, and free form expression cannot take place. That is why musicians get drunk and high, and writers find a way to access the free train of thought. It is very important.

I will be completely frank with you. I know I am supposed to tell you that my travels have all been good and well, but the truth is, they have not. There were unexpected dramas and frustrations that owned most of the trip. Though the beautiful moments were in abundance, the number of frustrations were greater. I like to think that it all happens for a reason, that I had a great lesson to learn here with these frustrating circumstances, which I would never ever experience back home. I once heard a story about a Buddhist tribe in East Asia. For a very long time, many from the tribe were brutally tortured and locked in jails for rebelling. Once released, they still treated their enemies with love and compassion. Many asked these spiritual leaders why they treated their enemies with love. They responded that one must love their enemies because they are the ones who will challenge you, who help you become stronger in mind and spirit. Do not fear or loathe the ones who challenge you, but love them, for they are the ones who help you reach higher places. I like to think that this is how I should view my experience here.

Where to start… I am startled by the way that old traditions collide with new ways here in Sochi Russia. In the United States, we are all new.  Here, old ways survive underneath new packaging. Same old home cooking, broken streets, stray cats and dogs, naked sunbathing, drinking in the streets, slippers in the home and wholesome, good hospitality.  New cell phones, tall buildings, televisions, cars, and trains add a new strange layer over the top of a deeply traditional, religious, old way of life. These traditions are so engrained that they will never be removed, like a grain of salt sewn into the fabric of a wool blanket.  They live in the hearts of the people.

My friend and I arrived safely to Moscow at 5pm (Russian time/5am Pacific time), and went to the Red Square during our 4 hour layover.  I did not understand one sign as we made our way through one of the busiest Metro station in the world, in Moscow. There were so many people all rushing and hustling throughout the station. The city was hard, cold, grey. We almost missed our flight on the way back to the airport.

Then we traveled to Sochi and arrived at 1am this morning. My friend's great aunt is very sweet and hospitable. We had a two hour dinner once arriving, filled with food and talking, before going to sleep. The next day, we visited the Tea Gardens in the forest. We also visited a few waterfalls tucked beneath the mountains. Dinners in the country house are long and delicious, and contained at least 15 toasts given by her great uncle!  I understand less than 10 Russian words, so I did not understand one of the toasts.

It is explained to me that Putin invested a lot of money into Sochi to prepare for the 2014 Olympics, which took place only last month. The people here are happy for the new tall buildings, hotels, tourist attractions, trains, and so on. One can easily see the effect of a sudden economic investment into a poor, disheveled city: Streets in the country, littered with shacks and roaming roosters, cats and dogs, sit directly adjacent to the world’s most high tech Railways. Once you step in, you feel as if you've stepped into another world, a twilight zone, due to the distinct clash of worlds.

We drive down beaten streets, dogs run stray, small parks stand at the end of blocks, and collective garbage cans at the beginning of streets are a place for all residents to dispose their trash at. Many of the homes look like mere shacks. The small hills turn into mountains and the homes quickly disappear. Just a few short minutes away, one finds bright and lush forests of tall trees and waterfalls. Mountains covered with tea gardens and spas. We stayed at Grandma Irina’s home in the country here, as well as in her apartment in the city.

Apartment life: I hear pigeons cooing. They sit on the metal awning outside the window of our fifth story apartment. There is something romantic about Sochi. I am not sure if it is because foreign places tend to always feel romantic, or if it is the city itself. Perhaps it is how close the hustling city is to the Russian wilderness. One can take a single bus from the heart of the city into the blossoming country in a matter of minutes. A sad yet sultry city so close to the beaming trees, tall and reaching to the sky, thin trunks, hundreds grace a few hundred feet of land. The woman serving counters and tables do not smile. A seriousness permeates. But a warmth waits under a cracked shell, smiling only once conversation is made or help is asked for.

The geography of the city is refreshing. The residents call all areas surrounding Sochi, Sochi. I will guess that Northern Sochi is perhaps older Sochi.  A thick river runs down the center to the Black Sea, called black for its black rocks instead of yellow sand. Close to the sea, we have a metropolitan city, similar to most other metropolitan cities from the outside. Hidden amidst the city are strange old broken apartments, 20 stories high, dingy and covered on the outside with hanging t-shirts and other clothing items to dry. You wander behind these apartments and there are small parks, children on swings, little girls sitting around on benches, older men drinking in corners, smoking cigarettes. The old ladies meet at certain times throughout the day to catch up on the dramas happening within their buildings. They watch through peep-holes, and out windows, listening with eyes and ears to their neighbors. Surrounding the small green park are several of these tall apartments, and a few small convenience stores, a pharmacy, and a dentist office, which appears to once have been an apartment, as it is on the bottom story of the building, adjacent to all the other apartments.

There are no large grocery stores here in the city, but large swap markets which are open seven days a week, all day long. When visiting, you find countless women behind counters, selling fresh beef from their farms, eggs, cheese, fresh milk, sour cream, sausages, vegetables, fruit, homemade candy and so on. There is nothing I will miss more than the food. It is fresh like the water which runs down from the eternally white mountains. My body begins to feel bright and vibrant and healthy for once.

I have never despised love more then I despise love now. The way two tongues and lips meet each other, the way a man picks up a woman in love and lust, and how a woman becomes limp in his arms.  How two lovers are inseparable, holding hands, touching feet, whispering, playing, and pecking lips. Nobody can despise love to this extent unless they are the one standing on the outside, especially while not understanding the language of the other two. Two lovers speaking an unknown language, one cannot feel more alone. I locked in a shell of boredom, imprisoned in dependence. This is what it feels like to be a third wheel: Waiting, waiting, eternally waiting. Days at the apartment grow slow and long.  I am becoming bored.

I find escape from this torture in several things: One being Harat’s Pub. This pub feels like home; loud music, Free Wifi, Jameson, concerts on TV. It reminds me of my favorite pub back home. This pub feels very comfortable and is an isolated event in a city filled with huge empty clubs, expensive and elite restaurants, and traditional Russian décor. This is a real hole-in-the-wall, Irish pub, filled with men with beards, and tattoos. This is my ideal vacation: drink all day, walk through the city, meet strangers and take adventures to unknown places.

I take a date with a friend of a friend, named Denis. Denis is very similiar to the other Russian men that I have met on my trip. He is firm, grounded, and bossy. He takes me to a traditional Russian restaurant. The ceilings are stucco, floors are carpeted, speakers and a DJ set sit alone in a corner, playing English songs, clearly written and performed by Russians. The table are covered in elaborate cloths, the chairs covered in elaborate blue and white striped covers. Denis and I sit at the table and can only speak via Google Translator. Suffice to say, our lunch is very quiet. The restaurant is empty until five minutes before we leave, when a family walks in with four young children, and I finally have entertainment from this two hour long lunch, taken in pure silence, smiles and stares. I walk down a small hall at the end of the restaurant to a bathroom containing a small hole in the ground, and a place to squat above. A cold breeze blows up through the hole.

Denis is a traditional Russian man, difficult for an independent American woman to handle. I have no freedom without causing drama. He decides where we go, tells me not to touch things, tells me to relax when I ask questions. I think about escaping, but decide to be kind instead because he pays for absolutely everything.

Now I will tell you the story of Pieta. He is a young boy at mind. At 20 years old, he is also strong in spirit, yet unfocused, fidgeting at all times, tapping his fingers, bouncing his leg, moving, standing, sitting, walking, sitting, and so on, over and over again. He is old in appearance. The age of 20 is strange for any boy. Hormones are racing, Facial hair is growing, making a boy appear as a man, with large trends of adolescence in the face and body.

I first met Pieta when he came with his Grandmother, Irina to the airport to pick up my friend and I. He was quiet, boyish, and sweet, carrying our bags and whatnot. He seemed at first a misunderstood young man, a lonely boy, always hanging out with his Grandma, and sitting by himself in rooms. I give him a chance and try to include him in my plans is Sochi.  Pieta stays with us in the country house, and I begin to notice some bizarre tendencies. As I sit at alone in the living room, I turn around and see him standing directly behind me, or creeping slowly down the stairs in silence to the room where I sit, so as to be unheard and thus unseen.

Once we move to the apartment, Pieta begins to follow me around in the city. When we visit the store, he follows behind me, telling me in Russian the price of every item I pick up. He sits in the apartment all day, sitting alone in the living room, tapping his fingers. When my friend and I are out of the apartment, walking around, Pieta begins to consistently call my friend, asking her where I am. He begins to send text messages to me, asking me to send him my location. When we arrive back, he is standing outside the apartment, leaning on a wall, smoking a cigarette, waiting. When he comes into the apartment, he carries with him an odor of sweat and strong cologne. When he leaves any room, he leaves this smell and feel of musk. He leaves trash in odd places in the apartment, and moves things around. Cleans a dish, and covers the counter with water, the floor becomes dirty, things are disheveled and in the wrong places. I begin to go mad.

We begin to stop answering his calls, and do not let him into the apartment and this upsets him. He begins to see his Grandma and tell her that we are acting unsafe in the city, making up stories about how dangerous the city is and how we are endangered by being there, as if we were mere children. Once night, he calls the house and the cell phone, over and over and over, one after the other. We do not answer. Then Grandma Irina calls and tell us that she is coming to pick us up right that minute from the country to bring us back to where we are safe. When she arrives at one in the morning, Pieta is in the car. We pack our bags and stay in the country house for the rest of the trip, where Pieta is also staying. I avoid him, and push him away when he walks near me. He begins to haunt me.

When we move back to the city, Grandma begins to watch us like a hawk. She does not want us alone, or out anywhere without a man or herself to watch us. We have become children and when it is time to leave back to LA, I am ready and happy to get home, back to my independence and freedom. Never have I appreciated my independence more than I do now.