There are a number of ways to define fame – the highest jump, a record grossing movie or a Nobel Prize - all correspond to some degree of common recognition. One method, however, splits apart the diverse body of international celebrities into two camps, separated by one giant chasm that requires a Herculean effort to cross – Microsoft spell check! Sure, one could get an Oscar nomination or be elected into the US Senate, but as long as the spelling of your name exhibits a treacherous red wavy line under it, your claims to immortality are infinitesimally puny and you are liable to be forgotten anywhere from one hour to few weeks from now. Welcome back to the sad lot of undistinguished humanity! Those who crossed this line by getting rid of the obnoxious red line stand much better chance of being mentioned alongside the likes of Julius Caesar, Napoleon and Einstein. It is a true feat to join this scintillatingly select group. Some of these interesting types have enjoyed the trickery of alias nicknames, which at times tend to obscure the really mundane tales of humble beginnings unfit for Roman idols and Greek goddesses. Do many know Pele by his real name of prosaic origin – Edson? Can anyone remember Madonna’s last name of Ciccone? Do not be dismayed you are not the only one caught unaware. And frankly who even cares when even mere brushing with such types can provide much fodder for a thought, a lisp of inspiration and plain old bragging rights for an old common soul destined for obscurity.
Sadly, I am not an exception in this world of banal predictability. My name always attracts the wavy red regardless of the language that I use for my typing exercises and as such I am a forlorn representative of the billions trying to steal a peak across the vacuous high tech chasm that serves as the ultimate test of historic importance and condemns a vast majority to perpetually plebeian existence. The existence that craves for wisps of recognition of bigger and brighter lights destined to enter history books. Even a smile or a profanity, as common in Britain, will do. And yet, most of us, being reasonable and sensible types, usually resist such cravings save for occasional trips to rock concerts and hockey games. However, given a decent chance hardly anyone can resist a temptation of immemorial glimpses of posterity. Yours truly, likewise, could not resist a chance to attend some of the proceedings attached to the annual National Prayer Breakfast organised by the US lawmakers in Washington DC. A chance to see some celebrated politicians and perhaps even catching a glimpse of the W. himself was surely an inducement enough not counting the chance to reunite with the best friend of my youth Misha S. and his wife, lovely Zhenya.
Misha Zhovnir
Any of it was not possible if not for the efforts of the erstwhile pastor Misha Zhovnir (Misha Z) who has been receiving annual invitations to this event three years running. Misha’s story is rather interesting and even inspiring, as his formative years did not promise much in a way of easy life let along glamour and brushes with greatness. However since, Misha has spent most of his life in the shadow of the biggest celebrity of all, his approach to life and its attributes is one of surety and steadfastness regardless of circumstances. This celebrity, named Jesus, has been with Misha through ups and downs of his journey, never relinquishing his hold on Misha, the hold that affected everyone around his humble subordinate.
Misha grew up in Western Ukraine during the last two decades of the Soviet rule under fairly difficult circumstances of alienation and persecution. While alienation from the iron rule of Moscow was known to many a Western Ukrainian who frequently treated their conquering masters as temporary abomination, the persecution part became an attribute of daily life only for some, as being a Christian was a choice and not a chance of birth. The difficult and trying years of young life did not become any easier as Misha’s father became a local Baptist minister. His position, while elevating him in the eyes of God fearing folk, did create a nightmare of existence for himself and his family. Apart from constant harassment from the local authorities, Misha’s father even tasted denigrating prison treatment and all sorts of other humiliations – physical and mental alike.
Growing up, Misha knew two things – life as a Christian was not going to be easy and that his Saviour and Friend Christ would always be with him. He also knew that he wanted to be a pastor regardless of hardships that waited around every corner of life. In school he was ridiculed, in army he was laughed at and in university he was not admitted – all for the sake of higher calling. The future did not look particularly bright and promising.
The future turned out to be vastly different than expected thanks to the giddy spring days of Perestroika. Then in the mid 80s newly married Misha moved into the industrial metropolis of Dnepropetrovsk to explore new possibilities that suddenly became tactile even for the “outcasts” like him. Having installed his family into tight quarters of a communal student apartment, Misha pursued a student career alongside a successful career of a youth pastor in the local Baptist congregation. Everything seemed to be going right, but Misha’s impetuous personality craved for challenges ahead. Seeking out the challenges ultimately led him to trying out his managerial and organisational talents under different circumstances. His knack for working with others came especially handy on one particular occasion when his congregation hosted a Canadian contingent of Campus Crusade in the spring of 1991.
Before the appearance of the Crusade, church’s ability to penetrate the atheistic fortress of the Communist dogma that was a university campus was not adequate. This failing deprived the church of its potential growth through young and bright of this world. The work of Canadian Christian students on the local campus that summer was a first major breakthrough that saw a great number of local students coming to know Christ. Those were truly fruitful and remarkable days in more ways than one, as I even managed to snag the attention of my future wife who counted amidst the visiting Canadians.
That’s when my path of a newborn in Christ first time intersected with that of Misha who was serving as one of the hosts for the Canadian delegation. Right from the start his soft and yet persuasive demeanour attracted much following, the following that saw a truly magical transformation on the campus, the following that thirsted for Christ and needed much care and grooming. Misha was just the man. As the Campus delegation left, he took it upon itself to organise the first group of young Christian students under the aegis of the local Baptist congregation. This was a complete run away success, as Misha served as a thoughtful and accommodating bridge between an old and weathered Christian camp and us - brash, reasonably smart and certainly youthful new kids in Jesus.
The rest is history, as the group aptly named Alpha and Omega grew from a handful of students to a body of young believers that now attract four to five hundred people each Sunday, not counting many, like myself, who dispersed across the world. In fact, this foreign-based group of the original members has even created something of a Diaspora that counts in its ranks around hundred people from the USA, Canada, Australia and other parts of the world. The fact that we all manage to keep in touch is also a truly amazing testimony to tenacious personality of the pastor Misha.
On other fronts, Misha has been blessed in more ways than one. Coming from the humble, one- room, beginnings of a university student, Misha’s current business and personal success demonstrate much to emulate. Starting with a small furniture business to supply the starving consumer market during the closing Soviet years, he successfully switched to many an adventure finally landing on a successful combination of talent and other miraculous factors in creating a software firm that now employs around fifty programmers and support. The firm has won contracts from all corners of the globe including the US and Britain. And all this despite the fact that Misha is, kind of, perennially scared of personal computers and other gadgets that require wiring and silicon. It is like Henry Ford creating his automobile empire while shying away from all things of rubber and steel – truly amazing!
On the personal front, Misha has also witnessed some interesting and rather fortunate twists and turns. Taking one of such turns he ended up living in Washington State of all places. You see, his years under the Communist religious intolerance were not spent in vain for one more reason than previously thought. The reason is the quark in the US immigration rules that allow certain folks to still receive refugee status even years after any sort of persecution took place. Misha was only happy to jump into this loophole.
However, the thought of immigrating to the US did not seem to generate a usual excitement of easy life in paradise typically betrayed by an average immigrant. Instead of being driven purely by his feelings, Misha applied a great deal pragmatism in the affair. He had no inkling of leaving his church, business or friends behind, in the choppy waters of the Atlantic. Instead, he decided to keep it all and more by tackling on a US citizenship much favoured around the world for its easy access into a number of useful locales, and I do not mean Iran. So, some three years ago Misha immigrated to Seattle with his wife and daughter. His body successfully touched down in SeaTac while his mind was left firmly back in Ukraine. Even though Misha left his able friends and lieutenants in charge of his church and business affairs, he never allowed himself to feel the physical distance from the motherland by constantly keeping in touch through phone and e-mail. Like many a successful leader Misha is a bit of a control freak and he was not about to change his nature due to some nasty geographic inconveniences.
Well, one can only manage to fill up his day with so many phone calls and e-mails. Misha was restless and his true nature required an outlet. In no time he managed to start a Russian speaking Christian youth group, fittingly christened Alpha and Omega. Why mess with successful branding? But even this was not enough, as he strived to contain his energy by getting to know many a folk in the local Christian community, all in the search of application for his higher calling and bulging energy. One of such contacts turned out to be a man who ran the Washington State arm of the National Prayer Breakfast program organised years ago by the DC lawmakers in an effort to seek bi-partisan reconciliation and understanding through Bible readings and prayer. Originally a rather humble undertaking of just a few faithful on the Capitol Hill, this initiative has grown into an ecumenical ministry that spans the globe through top level governmental connections that reach out to some of the most unlikely places such as Middle East and Central Asia.
Getting invited a couple of times to the key annual event of the National Prayer Breakfast in DC was not a coincidence as Misha felt right away that this was a potentially very fruitful ministry field that could see an emergence of some very useful connections that could help ministry and business all at once. This year, Misha was given an opportunity to invite three guests. Rightly perceiving the opportunity Misha decided to use these invitations to create new contacts among the weighty in the political chaos that is Ukraine, the country still reeling in the wake of its first presidential elections of the 21st century.
The elections produced, despite largely misplaced western jubilation, much confusion that saw an emergence of three major electoral factions that congregated around three leaders – Yanukevish, Yushenko and Yulia Timoshenko. Since possessing three invitations, Misha saw it fit to distribute the opportunity evenly among the adherents of all three main political leaders – you never know wind directions when tomorrow comes...
My Misha S Once Again
My dear Misha Sokolov (Misha S) has been covered quite extensively in my previous notes, touching on his flamboyant personality and expansive nature hence hardly requiring an introduction. One thing I might have neglected though is his taste for luxuries when it came to some pivotal occasions. Unlike many of regular mortal folks, Misha has hardly ever had his future earning capacity in doubt. Thus, he never looked to save even in the dearest of times, instead, preferring to enjoy the best. I still remember a blasted bottle of champagne he ordered on our first trip abroad to Hungary when he decided to broach the cork that cost me at least a week worth of earnings as a mere Soviet – and all that to impress a female friend whom he did even like all that much. You can only imagine what he was ready to do for people he really enjoyed! I surely cannot complain as my half share of the fizzy grape juice was compensated in spades and watches over the years following. As a true man, Misha always preferred a watch to any other presents when he felt like giving something of value to his companions and friends. I have at least a couple of rather expensive and clunky wrist bands sitting in my drawer thanks to his past graces and perhaps I could be looking for more.
I, of course, being of entirely different ilk typically stuck with entirely different definitions of reasonableness, constantly fall short of his expectations. So when I was able to convince Misha to share a New York experience with his wife, I was fully expecting him to stay with Dorin and Michael in their beautifully appointed “bed and breakfast” arrangement with a fantastic look-out right on the Long Island Sound. Hardly anyone seemed to be able to turn down the inducement – steep banks, phantasmagorical sunsets and exquisite food – all that was just waiting at a price of friendship and civility. Well, having not so great impressions of New York of eleven years prior, Misha was not about to leave anything to chance in his quest for experience, especially given his husbandry instincts that attenuate at their sharpest when faced with a chance to wave around some huge bills (by the way, doorman, waiters, cleaners and valets of all stripes around the world love Misha).
Staying true to himself by leaving everything to last possible minute, Misha, upon firming up his plans just a week before his intended arrival, outright refused to inconvenience our dear Long Island friends. Instead, he wished to be ensconced somewhere with a direct view of the Stature of Liberty. Luckily, he was quickly persuaded to discard this rash choice of the location since it implied sharing ghostly downtown nights with security guards and cleaning folks while all glamorous of this world vastly preferred other parts of the city. Surely, downtown New York is where the money is, but confusing money with fun does not always land you in the best of places. As such, the decision to dart to the ritzy Central Park side did not seem hard to swallow for the brave new face of brash Ukrainian capitalism. The home for the first four nights on the American soil was to be an exclusive and boutique like surroundings offered by the Essex House on the Central Park South. Facing the Central Park, offering lavishly furnished rooms and boasting the most polite and well dressed help around, this place was not likely to be a disappointment. And it was not even at the $350 per night price tag.
Since Misha and Zhenya’s arrival happened to be on Thursday night, and my reunion with them had to wait until two days following. Their first two days in the Big Apple were spent in the exclusive, hospitable and financially fitting company of Dorin and Michael. This timing turned out to be extremely fortunate for my tight self as I managed to avoid partaking in one specific request for night entertainment – an expensive dinner. You see when someone in Vancouver mentions an “expensive” dinner; one could usually get away with $200 per couple at worst. Well, the notion of expensive in New York tends to throw some really sinister and financially ruining colours on the life’s canvass. That is my instinct and it did not fail me this time, as the fearless foursome got away with dropping a mere grand for some nibblings at the “tie only” Grenoille of French cooking fame tending exclusively to the New York upper crust and their wannabies.
Fishy Reunion
The day of the long awaited reunion finally arrived and in spite of some major Saturday morning traffic hiccups on my way to SeaTac I still managed to catch my direct flight to Kennedy, which afforded not only a fast commute but also my cheap version of the first class encapsulated in three straight empty seats that served as an awkward but much needed bed to my weary and frazzled body, readying for the societal shock that is NYC. I did not regret leaving perpetually rainy weather behind me, as I was even willing to swap it for some eastern chill for a change. Instead, nearly the entire time of our week long reunion was spent in balmy, spring like, weather of predominant sun and +15, the weather that reminded me of the warm New York welcome accorded on my very first try in February of 1992.
My ride of a common mortal in the dingy New York subway was a fitting contrast for the ambience of first meeting in “Milas”, a high-end casual affair with a lot scurrying help and a fantastic seafood display. All looked great especially Misha and Zhenya, who appeared remarkably fresh following three flight transatlantic connection and two busy sightseeing days in the city. The menu was surprisingly simple as it primarily offered a Prix-Fix fare for the Broadway going crowd. My wallet, as well as my culinary joy were feeling less secure with every passing moment as my first stab at Hors-d’Ouvres delivered a delicious but dismayingly small stuffed tentacle of some hard-to -et sea bottom-feeder. Consequently, I pinned my hopes on the main course that was represented by some skeletal fish remains that tasted remarkably good despite stark presence of the spinal column, eyes and fins. Alas, the size of the Haut Cuisine wonder assured an empty stomach short of my diving, knees and elbows, into the bread bowl. And this exactly what I did despite some hunkering for a delicious dessert. The latter arrived just in time to extinguish my last hopes for an ample pub meal since it betrayed a puny and yet delicious chocolate chunks mingled with scrumptious dainties of fruit and exquisite, although hardly edible, garnish. While the earlier parts of the meal were mostly accompanied by happy chatter and jokes, the later phase took on decisively sombre turns with Michael doing a solo version of extolling the virtues of freshly slaughtered fish and its natural juices. Whatever the size and apparent lack of sauces, freshly flailed catch was certainly a hit with his penchant for experiences of authenticity and good value for top dollar. His efforts seemed to re-double as he spotted some irreverently unfinished remnants left to their ultimate decay by our Ukrainian friends. Luckily, the dinner ended before he exhausted his repertoire of ever-towering arguments, as the bunch faced with the $600 tab, a blow for my thinning nerves and empty stomach. New York has always had a knack for surprises and it did not disappoint with add-ons to a $45 Prix-Fix, amounting to a much larger than expected tab, for me anyway. But who can place price on friendship, plus I was a scratch for the next stop on the procession route – an authentic Broadway version of Mama Mia.
Since the theatre was just around the corner, we all took turns carrying my light but bulbous bags that ended up accompanying my dear friends right into the cavernous maze of the theatre, as I loathed to unload $120 per for the entertainment already experienced elsewhere. I did make some light body movements trying to locate some cheapish extra tickets, but to no avail – the dismaying lack of scalpers seemed to be the main hindrance. So instead of upbeat ABBA tunes, I turned to wandering around my old pastures in Midtown. Covering some key points of strictly personal interest, I got a chance to remind myself of times high and low in my tenure as a New Yorker. Contrary to my expectations, not that much has changed in this well-established Metropolis, the same neon blitz of the street intersection they call Times Square, same bright and diverse crowds, same “Going out of business” signs on the 34th street, the signs that have served as a snare for unsuspecting out-of-town bargain shoppers for generations. All this with few exceptions, as my dear old EL TORITO in Empire State Building is now gone alongside its perennial companion HOULIGANS, as both have been replaced by much trendier and up to speed brewing establishment. Everything inside reminded me of my younger days except for the menu and decorum gutted by perennially changing tastes and inclinations. Feeling a little saddened by the disappearance of my Alma Mater, I wandered to Madison Square Garden remotely hoping to catch a Nicks game or something. Well, it was not to be, as clearly evidenced by the empty hollow sounds made by my tiring gait. The time had come to reunite with my dear friends and the joyful theatre going crowd, as I impatiently positioned myself in front of the theatre, sharing the moment with the numerous and very much multicultural purveyors of Manhattan cheap rides – bicycle rickshaws.
Rickshaw Diversion
The latter is quite a recent phenomenon that did not exist just a few years prior. I guess the helplessly “burgeoning” American middle class has been shying away from increasingly expensive and helplessly slow horse drawn rides in favour of cheaper alternatives driven by incessant and cheap immigrant labour flow that New York is famous for. These guys seemed to flood all nooks and crannies around the theatre district, seeking to coax tourist dollars at every opportunity. The Mama Mia crowd appeared to be a desirable slice of clientele, as all too many of these guys rode right under the exit sign to catch elegantly cascading tourist cash. The competition was fierce and the seemingly good natured and cosmopolitan clan of riders abruptly turned into strident, individual and ferocious capitalists at the first appearance of potential customers, many of whom were still wearing the last glows of the curtain call on their faces. In order to shake off the magic music spell of the Swedish enchantment and bring them back into the real world of dollars and sense, my clamouring and energetic sidewalks companions started the impenetrable cacophony of bike bells. While each ring, despite the latest in electronic arts and sounds, is able to produce just a pitiful unattractive high pitched falsetto, its combination with hordes of its siblings produced naughty decibels to rival those of a mash pit at a Metallica concert. Naturally, this sudden change in my personal comfort was not going to be bearable if not for soon emergence of my suitcase bearing friends.
The latter did not seem all that pleased to have partaken in the slice of mass entertainment that is Broadway and were only too happy to leave behind the satisfied joy of the fellow spectators and the noise of helplessly numerous and underemployed rickshaws. While the Ukrainian contingent acutely felt the effects of the cross Atlantic jet lag and was nearly asleep during the entire performance, the New York pair was dismayed by excessive numbers of out-of-town guests, especially ones from Tennessee and Upstate New York. Dorin and Michael were especially disturbed by their provincial leisure suits and badly placed exuberance, while the sleepy Ukrainian tandem found the energy to comment on less than impressive stage costumes that did not help the apparent lack of natural beauty brazenly exhibited by main actors, the nerve!. No matter that the play location was balmy Greece hence explaining the absence of Parisian Haut Couture. No matter that Broadway duly praises signing and dancing above other less laborious talents such as physical attractiveness. The experience was clearly below par and nothing could salvage it save for Michael’s employing his persuasive powers once more, this time soundly convincing himself that Broadway shows usually go downhill once tasted by local and certainly more discerning crowds. Mama Mia has been running for years and fell an easy prey to his search for a blissful personal content.
Lenya - the Enigma
After the halitosis-inducing theatre experience my friends longed for a taste of sophistication, so Dorin and Michael’s decision to pay a late night visit to their friend Lenya was a no-brainer. Since my uncouth suburban-ity was carefully prepped prior to the visit, so I would be able to survive the grandeur event mostly unscathed. The event that did not start to be all that promising since Lenya was not at home when we showed up at the doorstep of his lavish apartment foyer guarded by no less than two liveried servants. While our outward appearance alluded to some degree of belonging, we where allowed to enjoy the marble covered floors and plush furniture that did not require any bolting to the floor, as it did not seem to be in any immediate danger of being stolen, unlike other more habitual places such as my old apartment complex in the seedy Whalley.
Biding our time and waiting for Lenya’s midnight return to this humble pad, Michael and I engaged in a high-spirited historic exchange dealing with all matters gruesome – WWII. It all went relatively well until Michael plunged into a persuasive discourse that attributed much larger than warranted, by my historical knowledge, credit to the US in toppling Hitler and his bunch. The sparks started flying with disturbing frequency and, fortunately, before they could stoke up a real fire, the party was adjoined by Lenya and his lively wife Sarah.
Soft and redeeming tones of the warm winter night befitted the gentle outlines of Lenya and his life companion when they emerged from the darkness of the night under the projector lights of the magnificent foyer. She, in her earlier forties and twenty years away from winning the 1984 Miss America crown, was still bearing the brilliancy of that fateful highlight while obviously looking forward to a good night sleep, an inclination that hardly anticipated an Russian intrusion so near the strike of the midnight. He, in his matching forties, exhibited a winningly effulgent and happy countenance buttressed by highly developed bed-side manners and self-assurance fit for the leading light of the modern ophthalmologic science, its practising branch His well-manicured, trimmed and welcoming figure basking in everything exuding class, Bergdorf Goodman and Tiffanies, included soft surgical hands in clasps of an expensive bauble that managed to keep good time much due to its hefty price tag no doubt.
Gracious and benevolent Lenya was delighted, inviting us upstairs into his world that afforded a truly palatial lifestyle fuelled by his earnings of a very successful eye-surgeon with his own clinic employing numerous amounts of peers and boasting the LOCATION – 5th Avenue, Upper East Side. The reliable specimen of modern elevator art whisked us to the top of the 40 story building in mere seconds. The door slid wide open and we walked right into a very expensive piece of private real estate appropriately guarded by silver, and not wooden, phylactery on the door jam – Lenya was Jewish in the best and certainly very expensive sense. I guess a wooden one would not do since the task of protection was larger and more expansive than usual – a 3,000 sq.ft two-story penthouse with an unobstructed 180 degree view of the best Manhattan had on offer. So breathtaking, as I was able to scan from the Empire State and Chrysler buildings into the deep dark recesses of Central Park and the playful lights of Upper West Side in one fell swoop. The night was mesmerising, as all of us hardly managed to free our tired feet of shoes before gluing our faces to the numerous and no doubt very expensive windows. The clear night sky with its scintillating star display could hardly spoil the spectacle that kept me busy from assessing other magnificent features exhibited by this real estate marvel that commanded a modest, by New York standards, price tag of $5 to $7 million.
The unforgettable view almost succeeded in robbing my curiosity of partaking in other pleasures offered by the cosy arrangement that boasted prodigious quantities of marble, Persian rugs and other exclusive attributes of quiet wealth. Barely coming back to their senses, the company quickly split into three camps – American, feminine and masculine. The former was solely occupied by sulking Sarah who did not seem to enjoy our, exclusively Russian, nocturnal exuberance. And since her two sleeping angels were not abut to share their mom’s company, she resorted to simple and silent housewifie tasks of serving sweets and fruit to the marauding crowd of awkward guests. Sarah aside, Dorin and Zhanya enjoyed their feminine time sharing the grandeur of the living room, while the representatives of the utilitarian sex shared a cosy cigar nook – no cigars but plenty of expensive Courvoisier on hand. Awed by the surrounding splendours of Manhattan panorama and shamed by a treacherous sock hole on my foot I was hardly fit for the next phase of the elevated discourse that promptly switched from planetary to more mundane but not less absorbing topics - designer watches.
After being promptly disqualified due to my wearing a twenty dollar Timex piece, I climbed the galleries to enjoy the exchange of titans in the arena below. By now the titans were turning into boys indulging in their favourite pastime of show and tell. Michael was the first to go and right off the blocks he did not fail to impress by dangling his ten-thousand dollar Swiss piece adored with a lengthy recital of its irrefutable qualities. The detailed recital showered the audience with numerous and mostly incomprehensible technical dainties that appeared a little heavy for my uninitiated mind. Ultimately, this heavy barrage of dubious knowledge ushered a new entrant – Misha’s Breguet, which had been recently purchased for an equivalent of about thirty thousand lowly Canadian dollars. This appearance caused a general sense of awe and the elevated discourse preceded climbing nearly philosophic heights around the gilded and bulky body of the exquisite specimen. Much to my surprise this piece was not likely to be considered an etalon. The Swiss wonder was found to contain some well-concealed but nevertheless weighty flaws. The primary charge was levelled against its rather bulky exterior - clearly the discussion was getting ever more unattainable, as I only could imagine the size to be an advantage when parting with such prodigious quantities of cash. Not necessarily…
An apparently deathly grip on the lead did not last all that long for the unfortunate Breguet, as it was treacherously KO’d by a slender-framed and nimble opponent that emerged in a leather bound and very exquisite box resting on caring and very soft surgical hands. The bauble, extracted it from its obscure resting place in the master bedroom, turned out to be Patek Philippe of the fifty-grand fame. The pitch of adulation was getting hysterical as my trusty friends childishly jockeyed for a position just to get a better view of the patented insanity that negated the struggle for world piece and justice among other things from the Miss America circuit. Numerous compliments heaped on the, undoubtedly deserving, owner evinced a great degree of humble soviet beginnings that dovetailed so well with the rest of Lenya’s, most agreeable personality. When it came to the view, “we like it” was the response, and when it came to the watch “mostly for cocktail dress parties” was another. While we were barely able to cope with raging emotions, Lenya remained cool as a rock in the midst of the storm, no doubt encouraged by an everyday Swiss piece that demanded a mere outlay of fifteen thousand for the joy of keeping his hectic existence more or less on time. Luckily when I was about to yawn, the rest of the crowd felt likewise and I did not have to betray my very uncouth nature by requesting an untimely departure. With the watches back in their proper places and the cognac drunk, there was not much left to our imaginative minds but to bid adieu to Lenya and Sarah, who duly emerged from yet another room to give an obligatory good-bye chased by protocol driven hugs and kisses for closer acquaintances. Bye, bye Courvoisier, Swiss masters and the magic view - Long Island here we come.
Long Island
The next stage of the reunion was to take place on the steep shores of the Long Island Sound. The magnificent water view, tireless hands of the chef extraordinaire (Dorin) and a friendly company was just perfect for much reminiscence and good old time. The highlight of the evening was no other than Lenya himself who showed up with his two predictably beautiful and very precocious children who even spoke very passable Russian despite English being the primary language of the household. Much of this achievement was surely due to Lenya’s persistence in hiring exclusively Russian babysitter help who accepted only cash and did not file income taxes.
By now, I was definitely running out of time to find one single fault with this perennially cheerful and good natured chap. While he entertained us with his graceful presence, his wife was avoiding a possible Russian overload with a determinate effort to cover just about any sale sign inside a nearby mall that later delivered a Range Rover full of stuff that had to be unloaded by two burly doormen when back in Manhattan.
She only showed up closer to the end and turned out to be a very pleasant company when I was able to fit a couple of words in. Finding that my persona has arrived from Vancouver gave me a first opening at being noticed among the mounds of designer watches and designer skis, which proceeded to be a topic of yet another very persuasive discourse by none other than Michael. Upon hearing about Vancouver Lenya appeared delighted to have met me, as if anew, while his wife gave the thumbs up to the best place on Earth, discovered when she visited our Strong and Native Land during her heady Miss America days. On one such jaunt she even met a whole bunch of Edmonton Oilers who invited her to a game in the hockey Mecca of 1980s. This experience surely left a lasting impression in her hockey annals as it amounted to a blur no bigger than a puck.
Well, as all good things must come to an end, we had to say good to Lenya and his bunch piling up in the “piece of junk” 2006 Range Rover, bidding “Au Revoir” to yet another chapter of our lives. The next day Misha, Zhenya and I were to take a drive to Washington DC in a red rental Saturn SUV. Misha of course was up to renting a Bugatti, however even the New York market eschewed one way rental of such mobiles, hence compelling us to settle for something out of the sunny Detroit.
Washington DC – Inconspicuous Arrival
The next morning proved a fantastic relief from my nightmarish sleep, as I calmly drove through the New York traffic nightmare with serenity fit for a bright and suddenly warm January sun. Arriving to pick up my friends in their lavish Central Park South quarters was a delight since I availed myself of not only of the top notch bellmen help but also got a chance to have a first-hand look at the amazingly ornate and luxuriously stocked dining room where my dear companions were partaking of their lavish breakfast buffet that commanded the price of a kingdom - $76USD for a pair to be exact. The food looked phenomenal and waiters were just buzzing about in their very crisp and most likely unionised uniforms. They seemed to pay special attention to my friends. At first I attributed this to their lack of bilingual talents, but the Pandora box opened when he scribbled $90 on the bottom of the check. You see, the $76 price tag already included a tip, so the additional $14 was a very welcome addendum for some. I tried to persuade him to re-write the check only to be rebuffed by the complete lack of interest in losing face. Misha clearly preferred to march into the future accompanied by numerous and obsequious help who ran a very little chance of seeing him again anytime soon, on this Earth anyway.
Our departure from New York took longer when we decided on a tour of some key Manhattan sites – we covered the Met, Museum of Natural History, Upper West Side, River Side Drive, Columbia University and the heart of Harlem – in other words the best the place had to offer. The latter was especially interesting, as it sparked the conversation that dealt with skin colour, genes and social engineering. Predictably my strong UN-infused inclinations were starkly juxtaposed vis-à-vis clear racial positions of my dear ex-Soviets. With no one winning the argument, we peacefully disgorged our vehiculo into the wide industrial plains of the Garden State.
The drive to DC was fantastic as mid-day traffic was sparse, conversation lively and coffee on stand-by. Just in a couple of hours, we travelled from the capital of finance to the legal capital of the US – Philadelphia. Here I wanted to introduce my friends to some key points of American history such as Declaration of Independence, Constitution and First Congress. The task was very simple as all we had to do was to show up at the Independence Hall. The place had surely changed more in the last few years, as it had managed in the preceding two hundred, as ever growing security concerns put much in a way of additional checks and barriers that required scanning of bodies, buckles and bags. Luckily, it did not take long to assess the situation in the midday lull, as we quickly gave “mediocre” to the Liberty Bell, zipped past first Senate chambers and scanned the windows of the Constitution chamber. Philadelphia was running short on charms to truly extricate our company from the road fever.
On our way out of the city maze, confused with directions, we came to see how this city of history and lawyerly wealth presented a very acute picture of contrasts of what America really is – miles and miles of grim and indistinguihabke tenements presented a better picture of the every day America than many a film or book. Sufficiently depressed by sunlit and yet uninspiring urban landscape, and with no regret we sped up away to DC.
DC - First Impressions
The arrival to the capital of politics was yet another good lesson in polarization that did not wait to show up. The Hill, which is taken up by the perpetual tug of wars between left and right, Democrats and Republicans, serves as a balancing point between the posh West end, and the poor and ravaged East. Covering the eastern corner first, we got loaded with tension when passing boarded up buildings, lumps of garbage and other many a sign that inexorably pointed to the place in charge – White House…
Well, eventually our tensed nerves got a spa treatment by relaxing and feasting on the grand architecture, meticulously groomed streets and proud mansions of the West. Luckily, our humble abode was to be situated right in the heart of the Ambassadorial Washington – DuPont Circle. But before we got a chance to partake in the embedded comforts of the Washington Hilton, we were duly introduced to one of many vagaries of the grand capital – Washington cab drivers.
I guess being a relatively small place made even smaller by unserviceable East, ridden by gun shots and robberies, the local cabbies had to be extra cute when trying to make a decent living at it. Since running a meter in the cramped confines of the capital did not seem like a good idea, they resorted to the old tricks employed by large utilities – charge by districts. Regardless the distance or travel time, the cheapest and the most expensive ride around the Hill will be about twelve bucks, should you stray away into Georgetown and any other “remote” satellite communities – think $16, and God forbid you should want to cross the eternal Potomac into Virginia and take off from the National Airport – be ready to part with twenty.
Given the system, all a cabbie has to have is a piece of paper that makes references to zones, forget about miles and the meter. As such, our very first DC cab experience was a little disconcerting since we did not know how much we would have to pay till the very end. The experience revived our bargaining instincts – clarify the price before jumping in. And that’s what we did from then on, even though it still did not help all that much. The truth is that we were short on local geography – always to be taken advantage by the local sharks.
National Prayer Breakfast
A typical breakfast takes anywhere from ten minutes to a couple of hours tops, depending on occasion and complexity. The National Prayer Breakfast is a monster by this estimation with preparations stretching for months and actual set of events lasting three days starting with registration. Here we met other Ukrainian, or Misha-invited, participants in the event.
One of them was a president of the Krivoy Rog University from central Ukraine – a stout, proud and inevitably unilingual professor of mining with his wife and daughter in tow. All dressed in requisite furs and with certain amount of aplomb fitting for a newly emerging Ukrainian Nuveau Riche, they nevertheless turned out to be a friendly group eager to learn and taste within reason unless it is called a sandwich. Considering excessive use of bread in American cuisine an abomination, these did not befit their sensitive diets that called for things fresh and continental. Their daughter, Natasha, was an interesting bird – not only sporting some reasonable English but also her, much accepted around the world, Israeli passport – and all despite very Slavic appearance emphasised by no lack of blond hair. All was a legacy of her first marriage to some Russian Jew that arrived with a four-year old daughter and a large bag of life experiences to boot - and all this rounding thirty. With the baggage that included perennial fur outfits, courtesy of the family fortune originating from the mines surrounding her native town, she proved to be a feisty polemic force when it came to issues of war, Bible and race. I enjoyed some of our sharp but friendly exchanges on a number of occasions, making for a good passage of time as far as I was concerned.
Her parents of more traditional ilk predictably exhibited affinity for all things stable, with her mother spending most of her time worrying about her ulcers and husband’s diet. Despite these preoccupations we managed to have a great first outing that took us along major thoroughfares of the great capital including the well-feathered nest of all that mattered here – K Street. Having momentarily observed inconspicuous riches delivered by institutionalised corruption called lobbying, we proceeded to partake in more obvious sights such as White House, the National Mall, the Treasury and of course the powerhouse of them all – the Offices of Vice President.
It is of course rather ironic that these offices in their towering grey presence should present such a contrast to the diminutive outlines of the White House. In the years past hardly anyone had a sardonic thought on the subject, as the perennially weak office of vice presidency could boast just a single point of reference for its impotent existence – its grey and hollow edifice. It has all changed with the ascension of Mr. Cheney of course who de facto runs the country through the puppetry of less than insightful Mr. Bush. Now, this edifice has unshackled its past irrelevance, goading this world’s strong into submission through any means deemed necessary. As naïve tourists still continue drawing their prime travelling experiences from seeing the white washed virtue of the presidential digs, they fail to realise who really rules their lives now – hardly electable, very powerful and the most grey – Cardinal Cheney and his all powerful friends. Forget about Mazarin or Bismarck, the Paix Americana is in now.
Well, back to the reality of the blustery winds as those were just about to obliterate anything standing at the exposed mound of the Washington monument. Luckily, free tickets masterfully procured by yours truly just in time to deny the impetuous winds their final victory delivered the group of six to the top of this apparently the world’s tallest stone structure. As many a tallest, biggest, thinnest and grandest thing tend to pepper the American landscape at amazing rate one tends to be easily set for disappointment all too frequently. Well, this one was not one of them – we truly enjoyed the 360 view from the top through the tiny embrasures, the view that revealed the best the capital has to offer. Warmed up and satiated with sightseeing we took yet another overpriced cab ride back for Breakfast registration.
The elaborate registration procedure stacked up with personal assistants revealed that my help will be unattainable for just about any event within the framework of the proceedings, as only the invitees were given the requisite tickets to meals, talks and other hoopla. Happy to stay away from stuffy meeting rooms, I was looking forward to some frivolous sightseeing.
Flinty Mint
After the registration, Misha got on a glow of yet another scheme that his life is usually full of. Perusing some local newspapers he discovered a great souvenir piece fit for a number of his key business contacts – a one hundred dollar silver plate issued by the Washington mint. This one is great – it looks shiny and presentable, weighty and affordable, as the presumed one hundred dollars could be purchased for somewhere around $90 in hard cash. Something was not adding up - so further investigation was necessary. My efforts led to the highly esteemed offices of the US mint. Being the late hour on the fateful night of the State of the Union Address on January 31, the only US Mint office still opened for the crazy in the world of numismatics was under the magnificent auspices of the Union Station.
Being one of the key architectural digs of the capital, the place where multitudes first came into contact with the great hollow, it never escaped the meticulous attention of federal authorities as a great PR instrument. No expense has been spared to beautify and maintain this historic edifice that boasts magnificent architectural aspects, attractive shops, clean floors and ton of able security guards. A fitting place for the US Mint that occupied a rather humble recess in the main hall, stocked up with coins, pins and a clerk in the business attire, who not only possessed an extensive knowledge of his wares but also was an apparent history buff with no less than a Bachelors degree. Our inquiry regarding the flashy offerings of the esteemed Washington Mint brought on a very definitive and singular response – “Junk”. After all there was a trick behind the private issue of the hundred dollar silver issue costing less than its face value – hmmm.
Unfortunately, much unlike its pretender, the US Mint produced things of value that lacked certain marketing aspects desired by my dear friend. At least before we left the stall empty handed, we were given yet another great hint at our official souvenir hunt – uncut bills by the US Engravings office. This idea excited a great deal of interest in Misha on whose behest those were purchased two days later at the requisite office. Here a great exercise in governmental exclusivity was perpetrated on unsuspecting consumers – while uncut bills exude less effort to produce than their mundane cousins, they command a mark-up ranging from 10% to 15%. Where is justice? I am not sure, but one thing I do know – the jealous and capricious princesses of authenticity always require a premium – whether it is worth it – you decide.
State of the Union
Once outside the storied station, we were just about to partake in the annual spectacle of American politics – the State of the Union Address. Treated by the rest of the world as yet another meaningless speech mostly designed to score in the polls, this phenomenon is certainly looked upon very differently by the politics crazy Washington, where just about any TV channel is overloaded with analysis and speculation about the banal and meaningless. Being caught up right in the eye of this hurricane, we could not help but stroll over to the Capitol Hill to partake in the festivities. Alas, our desire to get closer was hampered by tremendous security circle that was designed to protect the whole of the US Congress, President and foreign dignitaries present at this singularly pompous event. In fact, the security was treated so seriously that even eventuality of a collective demise is taken in consideration when one of the US Senators is chosen by lot to sit out the occasion in a different locale should anything horrific happen to the rest of the bunch. Two hundred years and still counting…
Predictably, nothing was left to chance with literally hundreds of police cars covering every corner, M16 automatic rifles slung on every shoulder, and hovering helicopters guarding the rest. Despite the cold and wind, I was only exceedingly happy to stay around and observe. Alas, my friends were feeling less sanguine with the frenzy that surrounded the event. Their alert levels went especially high when Washington presented its best in the “contrast drama” featuring a crowd of perennial protestors who encompassed just about any strata of society – raging grandmas, “overeducated” housewives and, of course, the most enduring figure of all – hippies, outfitted with drums, horns and specially designed protest bicycles carrying large “Impeach Bush” placards. When passing near the protesting crowd, we observed a van that towed a large propaganda trailer with a huge banner wrapped around carrying habitual protestations against the seating administration. Our few terse remarks on the subject dropped near the trailer prompted a well-versed though slightly accented greeting in full-on Russian, probably betraying an old inveterate American communist. My free market oriented friends, feeling the Kremlin chill, preferred to walk on, past the rows of horse mounted policemen. The latter caused much amusement on part of Misha and Zhenya, as they found much travesty in supplying all these expensive horses with their own food, trailers and limited mobility, serving as examples of waste in the public arena. It looked like my friends understood the positives of capitalism more acutely than their American counterparts.
Having tasted enough of the furious political winds we retreated to a cosy steakhouse for a friendly and scrumptious meal that evolved into an interesting discussion. Observing an apparent and unaccounted-for growth of large fortunes in my native land over the past few years, I was itching to find out - puzzled by the sources of the presumed abundance. Russia has oil and gas, South Africa has diamonds – but what about Ukraine. I kept running into the wall of unknown trying to unlock the secret. Misha attempted to clarify some issues through a number of practical examples – one of them struck me as a particularly amazing story of the Seventh Kilometre.
Seventh Kilometre
Trade has fuelled world economies for centuries, bringing unimaginable wealth to some, death and destruction to others. All and all however, the world without trade is hardly possible. The leaders of the brave Communist undertaking called the Soviet Union thought otherwise, essentially monopolising all trade functions in favour of the state, the mechanism that did not work all that well though. The state was quite adept in building huge infrastructure projects, in creating deadly weapons and in exploiting natural wealth. The state had a miserable record, however, in providing the next pair of underwear, toilet paper or a pair of shoes. So despite all very complicated, centralised and predictably futile methods employed by central planning agencies, the populace’s thirst for simple things of everyday life remained unquenched.
The thirst that could only be satisfied through operations of what we typically refer to as free markets. While the whole concept did not sit well with the authorities, the free markets spurred on by this thirst popped up all over the place – family kitchens, street corners and produce markets that served as a modest model of trade liberalisation for farm goods. All of it had to be done in relative secret and with hope of the blind eye turned by authorities. In large cities where buyers and sellers where much less likely to know each other personally, the brave souls gathered at their peril in pre-dawn weekend mornings at remote parking lots and daily produce markets. I remember hunting for a pair of western shoes was a real adventure in the mid eighties, when we would travel to the edge of the city, to some abandoned produce market that served as a “black market” for all things nocturnal – western clothing, shoes, toothpaste and even toilet paper. The market started at about 5AM and lasted anywhere from two to three hours. All sellers referred to as “speculators” would not spread their wares in attractive and tempting displays so banal and common in the West. Instead, they would carry few items for sale as close to their persons as possible – Turkish scarves around their necks, jeans and shirts in the folds of their clothing and shoes slung across shoulders for better viewing. All this of course was necessary in order to avoid costly confiscations perpetrated by always underpaid and sometimes under-bribed militia.
Life of a speculator in the old Soviet Union was never easy and frequently periled with jail time, confiscations and other draconian ills accorded only to real criminals in the “fair” West. In order to survive with some reasonable success these entrepreneurs had to resort to bribes, lies and power of numbers. The latter was crucial to avoid arrests and other misfortunes. As a result, they tended to loosely band together in the murky pre-dawn hours in some less than conspicuous venues to ply their trade and help out fellow human beings with basics denied by the shoddy state stores.
Odessa being one of the largest ports in the country has served as a trade gateway for at least a couple of centuries. It did not cease to be so even under the parsimonious Soviets, inevitably becoming one of the key points of entry for many western pleasures craved by the average folk. As a result, Odessa boasted one of the biggest “black markets” in the Soviet times. The arrival of the relative freedoms breathed on by the progressive policies of Perestroika created an incredible upsurge in the quantity of goods entering this famous port. Old confines of one of the largest central bazaars could not longer contain the amazing growth in volume of the local trade. The market had to find a new, much bigger location. It had to allow for present needs and any potential future growth. The city itself could not accommodate anything even remotely suitable, so the new site was found just outside the city at the seventh kilometre of the inter-provincial highway – it was just a muddy farmer’s field, huge and unwieldy, with no amenities - the best location city could offer.
After a title search it became clear that most of the field was owned by certain local peasant – Ivan Vassilyevich, who happened to procure the title by a combination of sheer luck and wit during earlier privatisation efforts. Now, instead of owning a dirty and low yielding potato field, Ivan Vassilyevich came into possession of something more profitable as he was in a position to charge rents for any trading stall, large and small.
At first, inconspicuous Ivan Vassilyevich thought of letting it run as it may by simply charging daily rates that were ample enough to provide for any nutritional and other needs of his large family that included five children from ten to eighteen years of age, his wife of twenty years and his ageing parents who could hardly walk after the back breaking years at the collective farm. Daily rates of about $1 per spot delivered at least $500 per week, an absolutely princely sum in the chaotic and desperate times of the mid-nineties when a monthly wage of about $50 was a normal state of affairs.
After a couple of years and ever-growing clientele of buyers and sellers who came not only from all over Ukraine, but also from other more remote parts of the former Soviet Union, the muddy potato field was transformed into a mini city populated by huge cargo containers converted into nearly permanent stalls that provided for storage and display of goods. The idea came out of the need to make the place more appealing and nobody benefited more than Ivan Vassilyevich who collected a monthly rent of $100 from each stall, thus managing to pocket at least $50,000 per month, as the open air market bragged almost five hundred of these $100 per month cargo containers.
Now, not only nutritional but just about any other needs of Ivan Vassilyevich’s household could be amply satisfied by the growing franchise – in fact he did know what to do with the money, buying everything is sight himself – furs, cars and Persian rugs – anything to use money for. Some days he seemed to have so much of this paper that he and his wife just stuffed it in canvass bags and put it in the cellar – just in case. In fact, Ivan Vassilyevich was getting a little lazy and lax as amply evidenced by his growing girth and penchant for celebrations inevitably helped out by large amounts of vodka and salo (Ukrainian lard). Now, he did not feel like dealing with such basic amenities as parking for his clientele when he farmed out the car parking operations to his cousin and neighbour Fedor. Fedor was only happy to partake in largesse measured in a tidy sum of its own.
The burst of new economic fortunes brought on by the earlier years of the nascent century saw the whole enterprise exploding at the seams. Ivan Vassilyevich by now had been forced to convert not only all of his fields previously delivering just meagre potato and corn crops, but also expand into the possessions of his neighbours, as junior partners in the vast undertaking. In fact, not only the place now commanded one of the largest goods and sales volumes in the whole of Europe, it had started trading in its own attributes – container stalls. At first, Ivan Vassilyevich just charged monthly rent and each one could be re-sold not too far off the face value at about $2K. With time the price went up to $5K, then $10K and $25K. Frenzy was starting to bite on and many started to deal exclusively in the container stalls – forget about underwear and bras, too mundane. Even one of our old high school friends, Vitalik seriously contemplated buying a couple only to back away from the visibly overheating market at the last minute. That was three years ago…
Now the stalls fetch anywhere from $100K to $150K per. Monthly rent is about $5K per month – not so shabby considering new amenities such as a couple of motels, casino, makeshift brothels, bars and other places of less than stellar repute. The whole place has been transferred into a satellite city to the old crusty Odessa, and the number of part and full time people employed within its confines has, by some estimates, reached 200,000. Amazing! The place now claims to be the biggest outdoor market in the entire Europe and may be even the world. It is not just a place of work anymore - it is a whole new kind of civilization that caters to just about any human need from birth to burial. Fortunes are made and lost at its high rolling casinos and less than seemly things transpire behind closed doors of its motels. Only few constant attributes remain – ever-pervasive money, mud and Ivan Vassilyevich.
Our trusty Fedor had converted his parking enterprise into a small empire collecting around $2 million per month in parking fees alone. But what about Ivan Vassilyevich you might ask. Well, his resources now compete with those of some princes and kings. His cellar is totally stuffed with dollar bills, his family is on permanent outings abroad and he enjoys himself to the fullest, perhaps even without understanding the full extent of his fortune. On one of his jaunts into the far lying reaches of the port city itself, Ivan Vassilyevich and a couple of his drinking buddies in sullied peasant jackets and comfortable Italian shoes found themselves in the comfy restaurant recesses of even more famous hotel right in the centre of the city. The upper story sea view and prodigious amounts of vodka played a little trick on our dear friend, as Ivan Vassilyevich felt a momentary urge to appropriate the whole hotel. The view so smashing and expansive - in the old Ukrainian tradition, our hero could hardly countenance sharing it with anybody else.
Ivan Vassilyevich demanded to see the hotel owner who had been shopping the property for about $3 million for some time then - all with no notable success. “How much?” - barked the peasant in the sullied jacket and nice shiny shoes covered in potato mud.
Giving some thought to the matter and assessing the state of the peasant’s attire complemented by dirt, flagrantly displayed under the long and untrimmed nails that rested on thick sausage like hands of a farmer, our sophisticated owner decided to play a little prank, just to rid himself of the annoying simpleton and his rowdy crew.
“Fifteen million” – was his answer.
“All right, I hate paperwork and bank drafts, I will give you eighteen in cash on the spot” – was a drunken reply.
While the gaping mouth of our owner was very much straining to close, a couple of Ivan Vassilyevich’s undertakers were it back with a couple of large canvass sacks extracted from the deep reaches of an old Volga’s trunk. The rest was just a blur of a counting feat. Ivan Vassilyevich requested the return of his canvass bags as the only condition – no need to waste good farming supplies…
Two years later: our stunned and flabbergasted, bordering on complete numbness, former hotel owner still counts his stars from his window in a posh suburb of Geneva; the hotel staff is still waiting for the second appearance of their new boss; and Ivan Vassilyevich just got an offer of twenty million for the hotel – should he sell?
Third Character
Still under the spell of the magic Seventh Kilometre story, I was not going to be surprised by anything, as the National Prayer Breakfast festivities got under way. The only missing piece of the Ukrainian delegation was a Vice-Governor of the Donetsk region. He was about to arrive and Sergey together with Misha Z went to the airport to pick this dude. Unlike other participants, he was already on the road taking part in the event not less significant - the World Economic Forum in Davos (by the way, Donetsk passes the MS spell check and Davos does not, hmmm). Having feasted on the snow peaked deep reaches of the beautiful Switzerland, his personal fortunes appeared to have suffered a slight jolt known to many a traveller, as Swiss Airlines lost his luggage.
His Honour appeared to be completely unfazed by the mishap, as he seemed to relish a chance to stop by the lavish local mall. Thirty minutes and three grand later, he was happily outfitted with a new suit, shirt and tie. He survived the adventure with the smile of a champion, no less. And the champion he was, surviving much more than an unexpected shopping trip to Neiman Marcus - an assassination attempt of just two months prior was definitely enough to put a serene face on anybody. His daily concern for personal safety must be something else, since he is an important and close confidant of the current Ukrainian President Yushenko who came to power on the coattails of the famed Orange revolution much to the chagrin of Moscow and their Ukrainian mafia subordinates running out of their headquarters in none other than Donetsk itself. The immediate proximity to the den of thieves must have taught him a lesson or two.
While Misha S was all about understanding this difficult position by citing fluently many useful and well-rehearsed arguments by pointing out among other things the fact that the city of Donetsk registered somewhere in excess of 500 ordered killings in the past year alone. This was unlike our strident and soft-faced University professor, supporter of the Russian faction, who had hard time finding emotions to emphasize with his political rival. “They do it everywhere” was his habitual reply. Witnessing the heated political atmosphere of DC must have been helpful to his position with one little disadvantage – there was a stark lack of blown up cars and gunned down victims polluting the scene of this fiercely partisan metropolis. Well, at least our eastern political lights chose to keep their gloves on, preserving the civil conduct fitting for the occasion – no dynamite this time.
Unlikely Friends
During the first full day of the proceedings, Misha S, Misha Z and two other dignitaries were took their turns rubbing shoulders with some rich and famous who attended the National Prayer Breakfast. The highlight of the day was their meeting with Benazir Bhutto herself. I was sorry to have missed the opportunity to even fleetingly meet with this famous, brave and very Muslim woman – at least I was happy to see that both Mishas had a good time smiling and posing. I would be smiling too for a chance to pose with the former Prime Minister of Pakistan for a dose of irony, as the most “free” society of the United States is left standing with few remaining dinosaurs of France, China and Congo that have not yet experienced a true example of liberation – a female leader.
On the other fronts, the apparent lack of bias towards anything specific at the Prayer Breakfast was revealing. There was a lot of movement, constant swirls of activities and much in a way of ecumenical processions. Here were the godless Ukrainians snapping fraternal pictures with Bhutto, the Muslim, there they bumped into some US evangelical stars, sharing a large restaurant table with Orthodox Coptic priests. In the opposite corner, the space was ceded to Catholic prelates in stiff white collars and sporting Reformist Jewish rabbis shuffling by in their perpetual Yarmulkes.
My narrow, mostly Protestant, mind was stretched a little too far, I have to confess. When it came to Orthodox and Catholics, I typically assume a very conciliatory pose – after all, not many in the reasonable centre could accuse them of denying Christ to the point of spiritual demise. So having a prayer breakfast with any of these folks does not seem to be an issue at all. And yet the event, attracting just about any other monotheistic religion under the sun, produced more questions than answers for more folk than just myself, I bet. Surely, there is nothing wrong with meeting people of different faiths, discussing one’s differences and similarities – trying to build a common ground for good. However, sharing a non-proselytising prayer in such cases does pose a tremendous onslaught of unease to the weak of faith - as in such cases faith is in danger of becoming just a cloak that covers not much more other than the varnished vacuum, from a religious point of view anyway. If only Christ can reconcile – how can an open denial of his authority be so widely tolerated?
National Gallery
Attempting not to dwell on more difficult and challenging aspects of my theology and prompted by a bright and unseasonably warm day, Zhenya, I and a pair of fur-clad madams decided to enjoy the delights offered by the capital city, away from the heavy engagements imposed on the breakfast participants. The main port of call for the day – National Gallery – was a fantastic place to recharge oneself with tons of energy and creativity inspired by the best of the best from the centuries past. Never a great museum goer, I always enjoy a piece of haute culture in moderation and this place seemed to be just a rightly sized bite to sink my teeth into.
As any half serious connoisseurs, we decided to do everything very systematically by starting from the earlier masters of the 12th and 13th centuries and slowly preceding up the time lane. This seemed to be the only way to partake in the earlier and certainly less inspiring art of the Dark Middle Ages, which if taken in isolation can hardly be enjoyed by starring at the gaudy flat figures inevitably dolled up in expensive robes, and nearly always topped by expressionless faces. However, since remanding such images to my memory creates an inexorable and much desired contrast to the overwhelming advances of the intriguing Renaissance period. Having mostly glazed over earlier transition pieces, we were delighted in the best of the great Italian revolution – De Vinci, Rafael, Botticelli and Titian were, of the course, the focus of our attention. Not only these guys managed to absolutely transform the very art of painting with mind-boggling perspectives, wide array of colours and very advanced techniques. They did it with Godly inspiration no less. They also managed to breach the stultifying nature of acceptable by their significant expansion into all things new – portraits, ancient pagan tales, nifty daily scenes and well fed nudes – were put forth to the delight of many.
When marching through the parade of earlier flat faces one gets a sensation of dryness and quiet boredom. When sidestepping through the Renaissance, dryness gives way to utmost degree of satiation, while quite boredom bows to curiosity and inquisitiveness. Sufficiently replenished we were glad to take part in some less-elevated and more mundane but yet extremely well done works of the later periods – Greensborough, Caravaggio, Goya and others were just marching past us in their unending and flagrant display of talent.
Then colours started getting decidedly deep as we stepped into the wood panelled halls of the Dutch masters who were much more prone to depicting the very live itself during the days when Holland was on the top of the world. Well, as all good things tend to come to their glorious end, Dutch merchant empire ceded to intellectuals of the enlightenment that produced much in a way of progressive, although somewhat blurry, ideas ranging from Laisser-Faire economics of Adam Smith to Communism of Marx and Engels. This plethora of thought must have given artistic geniuses many a creative headache, as how to keep up with the whirlwind pace of technology and science. Inevitably, such blurry ideas did produce some matching and very blurry art of Monet and Van Gogh. Forget precise lines and meticulous detail – the vestiges of lush artistic past succumbed to the onslaught of unearthly hews and unfocused thought fragments. After resting my eyes on carefree mood pieces of Monet interspersed with numerous moods of Van Gogh self-depictions, the world around me seemed to slow to a standstill of serenity, completely disengaged from any outer intrusions just like after a smoking some good dope, I am told. Blissfully continuing along, we ended up in the front of the entrance to the key exhibition of that day – tens if not hundreds of Ceasan were starring at us in their flagrant display of self-adulation. Unfortunately for them and their creator, Zhenya and I just could not summon enough energy to submit our poor eyesight to yet another level of concentration, necessary to properly imbibe the presumed beauty of the uncertain and even blurrier art. Zipping by Ceasan with speed matching his prodigious output of green and pastel, we burst with our last strains of depleting energy through the heavy ornate doors of the national treasure to partake in the smouldering remains of a great sunny day on the National Mall.
Surprise
The fateful morning of the great breakfast affair did finally arrive. Although not expecting much in a way of personal experience, I was still excited by waking up early and taking a morning jog down to the Washington Hilton. One might recall that this place serves as a stark and very concrete reminder of the 1981 assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan. Well, the presidential security detail has learned a thing or two since then – as my bold attempt to sneak through the fateful lower hotel entrance was handily rebuffed by some plain-clothed muscular types. Instead of trying any further, I decided to bide my time by sticking around observing the hoopla with swirling police helicopters, men in suits and some bald Albanians demonstrating in the morning chill, clamouring for Kosovo independence. Very exciting and palpable scene I must say. Alas, after a while the morning cold started piercing my conspicuous spandex, chasing yours truly to the warmth of the indoor TV reception.
Luckily, being quite the stir on the Washington scene, the event was broadcast in its entirety. While the majority of the affair was conducted in a very bipartisan and ecumenical style by a number of US congressmen, everybody was of course holding their best impressions for the key note speaker. Not suspecting any surprise, I was caught unawares when the camera revealed the star speaker - none other then Mr. Paul Hewson himself – much better known by his, you guessed it, nickname – Bono! This was truly a remarkable treat, as Bono, in indispensable orange glasses that take up at least half of his face complemented by day old stubble and perennial biker leather wears, was a true and totally unexpected addition to the event that typically boasts US presidents as principle and yet less than magnetic attractions. This was great and Bono did not fail to impress with his studied and off-the-cuff comments peppered with self-deprecating humour and some verbal roughage featuring very juicy and marginally tabooed “ass”. The presence of other notables including George W. did seem to put Bono even slightly off his beat when demanded doubling US foreign aid amounts to be doled out to the poorest of the poor – the African continent. Bono was fantastic – precise, funny and forceful with just few smidges of political incorrectness. His highness was the certain highlight of the otherwise bland affair, drawing roaring applause, “gesturings” of friendship and goodwill from W. This was a true Microsoft Spell Check moment!
When given the floor, W. and every one else in the room knew that the pinnacle of the event has zipped by. Consequently, W. remarks were mercifully short and to the point providing for a graceful exit from the presence of much bigger, brighter and certainly more popular Orion of pop culture. The exit of the Pres was crowned by the final prayer of King Abdullah of Jordan. The latter, uttering praises to all powerful Allah, brought this decidedly Christian undertaking to its gloriously empty end.
I was so elated and filled with enthusiasm for my Misha’s that I hardly needed a breakfast myself – the Breakfast with Bono filled me up for the rest of the day that still held a couple of engagements for my tireless politicians. Isolated by the even passes, I was only happy to share yet another glorious day with my wife, monkey and the habitual female contingent in tow. Even missing Bono and his presidential security contingent by a couple of seconds in the Hilton foyer did not spoil my day, especially since my celebrity cravings were partially satisfied with the sighting of Kathy Lee Gifford the night before.
Having my senses prepped up by the occasion, spotting Frank Gifford in the elevator was hardly a problem. The rest was even simpler, as Sergey and I followed the hallowed Hall of Famer into the lobby restaurant, right into the brilliant ambience of his perpetually upbeat and talkative wife. Having occupied the nearest possible table, we witnessed firsthand the effects of Kathy’s mouthy ambitions, as she could not keep her mouth from running hundred miles an hour even for a second. Obviously, she needed a listening outlet after saying good-by to the chatty Regis and his crew. The breakfast event seemed to be just a perfect opportunity to have her opinions heard and shared in a circle of numerous acquaintances proudly sitting at the table and imbuing in her “celebrious” charm.
Closing Dinner
This was a funny little occasion that brought much in the way of laughs for Tracy and I. First of all, like all large venue events this one was set on a deteriorating pattern pretty quick when it came to its presumed exclusivity. As the first few events of the proceedings were carefully staged and monitored, with everyone having to carry their official event tickets, suits, ties and cufflinks, there was hardly a chance for riff-raff of our ilk to sneak in. However, once the main security laden appearance of the Pres was behind, the event organisers exhaled a much needed sigh of relieve and let the riff-raff run lose on the rest.
The closing dinner in the grand room that seated at least twenty five hundred decked out guests and hosts was just the occasion. All of the Ukrainian types counting my wife and the kid got together in the main foyer to receive the last battle instructions from Misha Z who turned out to be extremely worked up by our apparent tardiness of about five minutes. He was so red and indignant like he was late for a treasured audience with the Pope. Well, his abrupt momentary manners made us leave our wits behind in a blind desire not to whiten his palpably seething rage of a perfectionist.
Seeing our fast approaching contingent with a baby carriage and a red faced, forehead veins popping, organiser, the dressed to kill guards were surprisingly lax despite our apparent lack of requisite tickets. Once inside, we witnessed an incredible scene of orderly chaos, as every Dick and Harry showed up to enjoy a free meal with some high priced entertainment to follow. The room was the proverbial den of incessant activity – overworked, run-off their feet, elderly waiters whizzed by, decked-out and pomaded evangelical patrons chewed, and we, madly zigzagging in the last gasp attempt to reach our table, gasped at perils of colliding with yet another bucket of clam chowder. Employing our best hurdling abilities, we finally managed to leap frog through few last barriers to the focal point of the evening – a table occupied by a couple of indifferent Russian dudes who would not have ever given a hoot had we not showed up at all.
Bringing our pulses down to a level manageable, we settled to a mass produced meal of clam chowder, steaks and Fletch look alikes carrying immense trays of overflowing food bits and dirty dishes. The organisers of the event, taking the Bono’s plea for African help in stride, seemingly decided to overwhelm themselves in a mound of leftovers before settling in for a comfortable and extremely calorific dessert chased by the entertainment that featured among other things a very famous Christian band “Mercy Me”. Completely unaware of their pop chart status, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Tracy and Sergey were more than delighted to witness their “little idols” life and most importantly for me “free of charge”. What a way to score some points. Just Great! Now with my stomach full, my suit uncomfortable, my dear wife happy, we decided to split, to forestall a bone crashing experience of a coat check rush.
Ovechkin
Much of our last full day in Washington was spent in preparations for the key trip event – attending a Capitals game with their youngest and brightest star Alexander Ovechkin. Despite his Moscow origins and my best marketing effort on behalf of the struggling Capitals, I was unable to convince more than seven brave souls to grace the event at a reasonable price of $35 per, as I was not willing to part with $90 for prime seats in presumably empty building. I, of course, was counting on some seat jumping later on in the game.
Meeting with Monkey, Tracy, her friend and friend’s daughter I was anxious to witness the key part of every professional sporting event – the warm-up. Undeterred by the lack of cooperation on behalf of my high tech digital camera contraption, I zeroed in on Ovechkin, enjoying his prodigious individual skills with a handful of others congregating around the home team tunnel, as hardly anyone bothered to check out other losers of late – Toronto Maple Leafs. Sensing a chance at real proximity to the Russian celebrity I resorted to the bottom-feeding exercise of fame brushing – screaming out players’ names as they walked past us back into the dressing room. While Canadian Jeff Friesen received his dose of my cheerful English, German Olaf Kolzig got some of his German back, and Ovechkin received my best version of a Russian encouragement. I felt like paparazzi desperately working the red carpet. Well, enough of the excitement for my poor nerves, it was the time to join my friends in the nose-bleed section.
Everybody, especially Misha and Zhenya, were delighted to be there since it was their first time in such large indoor arena and they were enchanted, especially since the main attraction was the Russian superstar who pulled in major marketing dollars for the team. His name was everywhere as his ruddy and pimpled face smelled of money – forget about European economic models, he scored and they counted.
Trevor’s appearance at the venue made little noise as usual, as Misha and Zhenya at first took our seventh member for an unfortunate mute spectator hemmed right in between some rowdy Russians, hence making a couple of pertinent remarks, luckily framed in the native tongue, leaving Trevor unperturbed. The introduction was of course in order. Once done the jolly company proceeded on their way of chanting, screaming and assessing the game. The latter was the real hit for Zhenya and Misha since it was the first professional hockey game of their lives. Fortunately, Ovechkin mostly met our high expectations by making a key assist and always buzzing in the general proximity of the net, jumping on any half-chance he got.
The first intermission siren announced the beginning of the seat safari for the four risk-takers – Trevor, Misha, Zhenya and I. The stadium in DC is a three-tier affair that presented a strange picture to some from hockey-mad Canada. While the first and third levels were relatively populated, the second level was practically empty with few lone survivors. The answers seemed to lay in the fact that the second level was entirely devoted to club seats that obviously yielded little and yet were not open to the public to the public – what a waste of some five thousand perfectly good seats with decent lumbar support. The club seats had more guards and guests! Having not even tried our luck here we promptly switched our attention to seemingly greener pastures of the lower bowl. Unfortunately, I did not count on one adverse eventuality in my brazen undertaking. In places that do not exhibit much in the way of empty seats such as GM place at home, the seat jumping police is basically unnecessary since proud ticket holders of police against unwelcome visitors themselves. Here, the market rules are enforced by firm and unforgiving regulators – the ticket clerks that occupy every niche and cranny of this establishment. If in GM place a seat poacher can count on squatting on a foreign property for at least a minute or two, taking advantage of their fat-walleted occupants buying overpriced beer and over-watered coke, here we were sternly denied even this pleasure.
Battered and humiliated by these stalwarts of the regulated capitalism, we struggled back up the stairs to take a few gulps of the rarefied air in the quest for enjoyment of the “bargain” tickets. Luckily, the boredom of an average NHL game was mostly lost on my excited friends on their first visit. They much preferred this to Mama Mia and even got into cheering, clapping and fuming over an apparently inane tactic of puck dumping. You see, such disgust for wasted passes is so deeply ingrained in a Russian soul, that even my novices could not resist their genetic make-up that gave birth to the unique and flashy art of Russian hockey back in the equipment bereft postwar days of 1940s. Our phenomenal Ovechkin did well - his eagerness and zest seemed to be the only uplifting factors in the Washington’s tepid effort over even more lacklustre Leafs. On paper he only got one assist, but on the ice he was a crucial impetus towards two more meaningless points and a “4 to 1” score line.
Side Trip to Morocco
The evening was not over with the final whistle, as four of us – Zhenya, Misha, Trevor and I had yet another venue to crash. Much to everyone’s dismay we were ripped off by the local taxi cab establishment again, in the worst way this time. As we were leaving the arena, I had an inkling that our Moroccan restaurant was supposed to be just around the corner. However, my facilities for reasoning were cut short by the pressing deadline of the fifth person meeting us at the location – Natasha. Grabbing the very first cab, we subjected ourselves to yet another $12 dollar tab, this time just for three short street blocks before we were unceremoniously dumped in front of our establishment. Exhibiting a certain lack of prudence by whipping out my whole three thousand dollar wad out of my pocket in the full sight of that greedy bastard, the driver, I had to almost fight him to whittle his, hardly obligatory and very clamoured for, tip to just two dollars. He acted as if entitled to at least half of my hard earned wad. No love lost and welcome to Marrakesh – the biggest surprise of the day.
Knowing Misha’s strong adherence to all things Continental with a general aversion to ethnic surprises, I was taken aback in the view of his earlier declaration to attend a special Moroccan delight that still had a strong hold on his memories of nearly eleven years ago when his highness first graced the capital of the free. Now, when I first saw the object of his colourful memories, my interest soared – this was in complete opposition to a typical staid, white table cloth, establishment tending to traditional palates. This low one-story building, situated right on the cusp between Washington have and have-nots, butted a dark nondescript stone building on one side while attempting to stay in balance against a vacuous nature of its other neighbour – a creepy gas station with bars on windows. The yellow painted exterior exhibited a total lack of any windows, adornments or signs save for a lonely string of Arabic letters presumably spelling “Marrakesh” – wow, and this within five blocks from the Capital. Somebody, alert the authorities or at least call Fox News as they are running out of the material.
Once behind the heavy metal doors of this undoubtedly former car repair shop, we plunged right into the exotica itself. Almost all staff of the establishment not only exhibited a certain degree of the South in their countenance, but also wore matching garb more common in the sukhs of any Eastern bazaar than on the venerable steps of the Capitol Hill. A hostess in her early twenties escorted us into the den of diners, sliding along in her slip-on shoes mostly obscured by ornate flowing robes, punctuated by a number of bangles on her feet and arms. The dining hall itself must have been in violation of a number of Federal safety statutes, boasting no windows, tons of eastern carpets, cushion, pillows, rags and other easily flammable textile products. Instead of tables of traditional height and spacing, each group of diners, regardless how small, had its own nook with a round table towering no more than a foot and a half above the ground. These were surrounded by low lying sofas and myriads of cushions that created surprisingly intimate atmosphere despite a complete lack of any partitions and heavy presence of numerous patrons. Municipal occupancy limits were flagrantly violated. So much so that for the first few minutes, I felt as if in a notorious “speak-easy” of the twenties, enjoyment and fear of a police raid mixed in one – shot of milk anyone?
Instead of a police raid, we a got a single version of well-handled wine list that exhibited an abysmal dearth of merchandise except offering some unnamed wines of presumably African variety. Any mention of a menu was did surface at all. Luckily my desperate musings were interrupted by the arrival of our waitress who had fitting dark skin, a cheerful vestige and flowing robes with bangles all over. Matching her ad lib appearance was the offer – a seven course meal for everyone, no exceptions and no a La Carte. Since nobody around seemed to be complaining, we acquiesced to the magnanimous offer, I did not even ask the price. I guess just getting in was a treat enough; forget about the price, individual plates and utensils – just do not piss off the help.
After providing personalized hand washing service featuring a common dish filled with lukewarm water and extensive hand rubbing, we were supplied with old but clean and somewhat pressed cotton towels for our hands that were about to get a full work-out, the one usually doled out to forks and knives. Each dining group at this establishment received the same treatment regardless of size – one plate for each course for all, varying in size to accommodate approximate eye measure of the cook vis-à-vis each party.
My quick trip to the local bathroom revealed a potential clue to the invincibility of this unsafe entertainment, as the walls around the place exhibited smiling faces and signed portraits of just about any famous politician of all political stripes including the most unlikely visitor – W. himself. I guess true exoticism trumps prudence in the name of political correctness and diversity. I doubt that a windowless steakhouse with table dancing and suspect food handling routines would be as favoured that close to the Capitol Hill.
Speaking of dancing on tables - it did not have to wait all that long. As we were just about to dig into our third dish of the evening, the already obscure and dusky ambiance of the Caravan Sarai plunged into utter darkness illuminated by the perennial safety hazards – personal fireworks and little flaming torches carried by numerous food servers turned performers. In just a few seconds, their quick and able hands erected a round dancing surface right in the middle of the floor that featured as a perfect stage for a lone belly dancer who managed to keep our eyes glued, senses captivated and bodies pitched forward for almost half an hour. The scene was rather interesting considering that the dancer herself was a Caucasian girl who despite her unfortunately light and starkly glowing in the dark skin managed to hold the audience ensnared for the whole spectacle. She only left after numerous and enthusiastic waves of applause.
The first dish was a vegetable medley that tasted sort of Mediterranean, although I was not quite sure whether the salty sauces arrived at the behest of the kitchen or my own fingers. After that dishes kept coming in a steady procession – meat, more meat and yet more meat. We covered the whole pallet from tender lemon chicken to less known lamb and other interesting morsels. Some dishes were quite delicious while others managed a little less success including the cinnamon covered phyla bun stuffed with chunks of chicken, tasteless egg omelette and almonds. Predictably, everyone dug in through the bland chunks of omelette to get in to more palatable chicken and almonds – away from the nefarious presence of incongruent cinnamon and dirty fingers. Needless to mention, this and a couple of other dishes turned out to be a real slobber. It was even more difficult for me as I had to spread my energy between food, entertainment and translation on Trevor’s account. By the time a huge dish of sweet melony couscous arrived in tandem with some less than appetizing pieces of boiled squash, our eyes and appetites finally gave way to emergency lights of satiation and fatigue. We were flat-out exhausted after the endless succession of ethnicity that included chunks of baklava left untouched with the last and welcome item beckoning soon exit – artfully presented tea with tons of sugar. The latter was served in small thick glasses grouped together under a tea kettle held up by the artful waiter -suspended at least two and a half feet above the glass tray. He poured unflinchingly. Amazingly enough, this remarkable presentation hardly left a single wasted drop of the syrupy substance anywhere but in the glasses themselves. Lingering under the spell of the tea service that was the closest thing to toxic pleasures of the East, we enjoyed an unexpected treat of modern Russian pop music that suddenly substituted Moroccan medley in the later part of the evening. This slice of sweet home brightened up some sullen faces around the table, especially Misha’s who was sulking deprived of the kalian pleasure. As far as the US fire regulations were concerned, we all could be sacrificed on the exotic altar of unsafe standards but, God forbid, we should engage in a causal use of an ancient eastern smoking implement – remember the Surgeon General!
After the tea service, the place started emptying like the Titanic – I guess one can sustain only so much of exoticism in the middle of other, more or less hedonistic pleasures, available in the heart of the “God” fearing nation. The night was still young for most and the exit sign demanded everyone’s attention.
Au Revior
Eventually, the time had come to put this saga of banal and inadvertent to its resting place until the next time Russians/Ukrainians decide to swallow a piece of western propaganda. Misha Z, Tracy, Sophie and I were off to the West Coast; Misha and Zhenya were flying to catch the last round of festivities on a luxury yacht down in Miami, the land of short shorts and flabby legs; Trevor and Sergey were staying put keeping a tight eye on Ovechkin’s successes and the Krivoy Rog bunch together with the Donetsk kamikaze went back to the polluted but comfortable environs of their status existence.
Sadly, I am not an exception in this world of banal predictability. My name always attracts the wavy red regardless of the language that I use for my typing exercises and as such I am a forlorn representative of the billions trying to steal a peak across the vacuous high tech chasm that serves as the ultimate test of historic importance and condemns a vast majority to perpetually plebeian existence. The existence that craves for wisps of recognition of bigger and brighter lights destined to enter history books. Even a smile or a profanity, as common in Britain, will do. And yet, most of us, being reasonable and sensible types, usually resist such cravings save for occasional trips to rock concerts and hockey games. However, given a decent chance hardly anyone can resist a temptation of immemorial glimpses of posterity. Yours truly, likewise, could not resist a chance to attend some of the proceedings attached to the annual National Prayer Breakfast organised by the US lawmakers in Washington DC. A chance to see some celebrated politicians and perhaps even catching a glimpse of the W. himself was surely an inducement enough not counting the chance to reunite with the best friend of my youth Misha S. and his wife, lovely Zhenya.
Misha Zhovnir
Any of it was not possible if not for the efforts of the erstwhile pastor Misha Zhovnir (Misha Z) who has been receiving annual invitations to this event three years running. Misha’s story is rather interesting and even inspiring, as his formative years did not promise much in a way of easy life let along glamour and brushes with greatness. However since, Misha has spent most of his life in the shadow of the biggest celebrity of all, his approach to life and its attributes is one of surety and steadfastness regardless of circumstances. This celebrity, named Jesus, has been with Misha through ups and downs of his journey, never relinquishing his hold on Misha, the hold that affected everyone around his humble subordinate.
Misha grew up in Western Ukraine during the last two decades of the Soviet rule under fairly difficult circumstances of alienation and persecution. While alienation from the iron rule of Moscow was known to many a Western Ukrainian who frequently treated their conquering masters as temporary abomination, the persecution part became an attribute of daily life only for some, as being a Christian was a choice and not a chance of birth. The difficult and trying years of young life did not become any easier as Misha’s father became a local Baptist minister. His position, while elevating him in the eyes of God fearing folk, did create a nightmare of existence for himself and his family. Apart from constant harassment from the local authorities, Misha’s father even tasted denigrating prison treatment and all sorts of other humiliations – physical and mental alike.
Growing up, Misha knew two things – life as a Christian was not going to be easy and that his Saviour and Friend Christ would always be with him. He also knew that he wanted to be a pastor regardless of hardships that waited around every corner of life. In school he was ridiculed, in army he was laughed at and in university he was not admitted – all for the sake of higher calling. The future did not look particularly bright and promising.
The future turned out to be vastly different than expected thanks to the giddy spring days of Perestroika. Then in the mid 80s newly married Misha moved into the industrial metropolis of Dnepropetrovsk to explore new possibilities that suddenly became tactile even for the “outcasts” like him. Having installed his family into tight quarters of a communal student apartment, Misha pursued a student career alongside a successful career of a youth pastor in the local Baptist congregation. Everything seemed to be going right, but Misha’s impetuous personality craved for challenges ahead. Seeking out the challenges ultimately led him to trying out his managerial and organisational talents under different circumstances. His knack for working with others came especially handy on one particular occasion when his congregation hosted a Canadian contingent of Campus Crusade in the spring of 1991.
Before the appearance of the Crusade, church’s ability to penetrate the atheistic fortress of the Communist dogma that was a university campus was not adequate. This failing deprived the church of its potential growth through young and bright of this world. The work of Canadian Christian students on the local campus that summer was a first major breakthrough that saw a great number of local students coming to know Christ. Those were truly fruitful and remarkable days in more ways than one, as I even managed to snag the attention of my future wife who counted amidst the visiting Canadians.
That’s when my path of a newborn in Christ first time intersected with that of Misha who was serving as one of the hosts for the Canadian delegation. Right from the start his soft and yet persuasive demeanour attracted much following, the following that saw a truly magical transformation on the campus, the following that thirsted for Christ and needed much care and grooming. Misha was just the man. As the Campus delegation left, he took it upon itself to organise the first group of young Christian students under the aegis of the local Baptist congregation. This was a complete run away success, as Misha served as a thoughtful and accommodating bridge between an old and weathered Christian camp and us - brash, reasonably smart and certainly youthful new kids in Jesus.
The rest is history, as the group aptly named Alpha and Omega grew from a handful of students to a body of young believers that now attract four to five hundred people each Sunday, not counting many, like myself, who dispersed across the world. In fact, this foreign-based group of the original members has even created something of a Diaspora that counts in its ranks around hundred people from the USA, Canada, Australia and other parts of the world. The fact that we all manage to keep in touch is also a truly amazing testimony to tenacious personality of the pastor Misha.
On other fronts, Misha has been blessed in more ways than one. Coming from the humble, one- room, beginnings of a university student, Misha’s current business and personal success demonstrate much to emulate. Starting with a small furniture business to supply the starving consumer market during the closing Soviet years, he successfully switched to many an adventure finally landing on a successful combination of talent and other miraculous factors in creating a software firm that now employs around fifty programmers and support. The firm has won contracts from all corners of the globe including the US and Britain. And all this despite the fact that Misha is, kind of, perennially scared of personal computers and other gadgets that require wiring and silicon. It is like Henry Ford creating his automobile empire while shying away from all things of rubber and steel – truly amazing!
On the personal front, Misha has also witnessed some interesting and rather fortunate twists and turns. Taking one of such turns he ended up living in Washington State of all places. You see, his years under the Communist religious intolerance were not spent in vain for one more reason than previously thought. The reason is the quark in the US immigration rules that allow certain folks to still receive refugee status even years after any sort of persecution took place. Misha was only happy to jump into this loophole.
However, the thought of immigrating to the US did not seem to generate a usual excitement of easy life in paradise typically betrayed by an average immigrant. Instead of being driven purely by his feelings, Misha applied a great deal pragmatism in the affair. He had no inkling of leaving his church, business or friends behind, in the choppy waters of the Atlantic. Instead, he decided to keep it all and more by tackling on a US citizenship much favoured around the world for its easy access into a number of useful locales, and I do not mean Iran. So, some three years ago Misha immigrated to Seattle with his wife and daughter. His body successfully touched down in SeaTac while his mind was left firmly back in Ukraine. Even though Misha left his able friends and lieutenants in charge of his church and business affairs, he never allowed himself to feel the physical distance from the motherland by constantly keeping in touch through phone and e-mail. Like many a successful leader Misha is a bit of a control freak and he was not about to change his nature due to some nasty geographic inconveniences.
Well, one can only manage to fill up his day with so many phone calls and e-mails. Misha was restless and his true nature required an outlet. In no time he managed to start a Russian speaking Christian youth group, fittingly christened Alpha and Omega. Why mess with successful branding? But even this was not enough, as he strived to contain his energy by getting to know many a folk in the local Christian community, all in the search of application for his higher calling and bulging energy. One of such contacts turned out to be a man who ran the Washington State arm of the National Prayer Breakfast program organised years ago by the DC lawmakers in an effort to seek bi-partisan reconciliation and understanding through Bible readings and prayer. Originally a rather humble undertaking of just a few faithful on the Capitol Hill, this initiative has grown into an ecumenical ministry that spans the globe through top level governmental connections that reach out to some of the most unlikely places such as Middle East and Central Asia.
Getting invited a couple of times to the key annual event of the National Prayer Breakfast in DC was not a coincidence as Misha felt right away that this was a potentially very fruitful ministry field that could see an emergence of some very useful connections that could help ministry and business all at once. This year, Misha was given an opportunity to invite three guests. Rightly perceiving the opportunity Misha decided to use these invitations to create new contacts among the weighty in the political chaos that is Ukraine, the country still reeling in the wake of its first presidential elections of the 21st century.
The elections produced, despite largely misplaced western jubilation, much confusion that saw an emergence of three major electoral factions that congregated around three leaders – Yanukevish, Yushenko and Yulia Timoshenko. Since possessing three invitations, Misha saw it fit to distribute the opportunity evenly among the adherents of all three main political leaders – you never know wind directions when tomorrow comes...
My Misha S Once Again
My dear Misha Sokolov (Misha S) has been covered quite extensively in my previous notes, touching on his flamboyant personality and expansive nature hence hardly requiring an introduction. One thing I might have neglected though is his taste for luxuries when it came to some pivotal occasions. Unlike many of regular mortal folks, Misha has hardly ever had his future earning capacity in doubt. Thus, he never looked to save even in the dearest of times, instead, preferring to enjoy the best. I still remember a blasted bottle of champagne he ordered on our first trip abroad to Hungary when he decided to broach the cork that cost me at least a week worth of earnings as a mere Soviet – and all that to impress a female friend whom he did even like all that much. You can only imagine what he was ready to do for people he really enjoyed! I surely cannot complain as my half share of the fizzy grape juice was compensated in spades and watches over the years following. As a true man, Misha always preferred a watch to any other presents when he felt like giving something of value to his companions and friends. I have at least a couple of rather expensive and clunky wrist bands sitting in my drawer thanks to his past graces and perhaps I could be looking for more.
I, of course, being of entirely different ilk typically stuck with entirely different definitions of reasonableness, constantly fall short of his expectations. So when I was able to convince Misha to share a New York experience with his wife, I was fully expecting him to stay with Dorin and Michael in their beautifully appointed “bed and breakfast” arrangement with a fantastic look-out right on the Long Island Sound. Hardly anyone seemed to be able to turn down the inducement – steep banks, phantasmagorical sunsets and exquisite food – all that was just waiting at a price of friendship and civility. Well, having not so great impressions of New York of eleven years prior, Misha was not about to leave anything to chance in his quest for experience, especially given his husbandry instincts that attenuate at their sharpest when faced with a chance to wave around some huge bills (by the way, doorman, waiters, cleaners and valets of all stripes around the world love Misha).
Staying true to himself by leaving everything to last possible minute, Misha, upon firming up his plans just a week before his intended arrival, outright refused to inconvenience our dear Long Island friends. Instead, he wished to be ensconced somewhere with a direct view of the Stature of Liberty. Luckily, he was quickly persuaded to discard this rash choice of the location since it implied sharing ghostly downtown nights with security guards and cleaning folks while all glamorous of this world vastly preferred other parts of the city. Surely, downtown New York is where the money is, but confusing money with fun does not always land you in the best of places. As such, the decision to dart to the ritzy Central Park side did not seem hard to swallow for the brave new face of brash Ukrainian capitalism. The home for the first four nights on the American soil was to be an exclusive and boutique like surroundings offered by the Essex House on the Central Park South. Facing the Central Park, offering lavishly furnished rooms and boasting the most polite and well dressed help around, this place was not likely to be a disappointment. And it was not even at the $350 per night price tag.
Since Misha and Zhenya’s arrival happened to be on Thursday night, and my reunion with them had to wait until two days following. Their first two days in the Big Apple were spent in the exclusive, hospitable and financially fitting company of Dorin and Michael. This timing turned out to be extremely fortunate for my tight self as I managed to avoid partaking in one specific request for night entertainment – an expensive dinner. You see when someone in Vancouver mentions an “expensive” dinner; one could usually get away with $200 per couple at worst. Well, the notion of expensive in New York tends to throw some really sinister and financially ruining colours on the life’s canvass. That is my instinct and it did not fail me this time, as the fearless foursome got away with dropping a mere grand for some nibblings at the “tie only” Grenoille of French cooking fame tending exclusively to the New York upper crust and their wannabies.
Fishy Reunion
The day of the long awaited reunion finally arrived and in spite of some major Saturday morning traffic hiccups on my way to SeaTac I still managed to catch my direct flight to Kennedy, which afforded not only a fast commute but also my cheap version of the first class encapsulated in three straight empty seats that served as an awkward but much needed bed to my weary and frazzled body, readying for the societal shock that is NYC. I did not regret leaving perpetually rainy weather behind me, as I was even willing to swap it for some eastern chill for a change. Instead, nearly the entire time of our week long reunion was spent in balmy, spring like, weather of predominant sun and +15, the weather that reminded me of the warm New York welcome accorded on my very first try in February of 1992.
My ride of a common mortal in the dingy New York subway was a fitting contrast for the ambience of first meeting in “Milas”, a high-end casual affair with a lot scurrying help and a fantastic seafood display. All looked great especially Misha and Zhenya, who appeared remarkably fresh following three flight transatlantic connection and two busy sightseeing days in the city. The menu was surprisingly simple as it primarily offered a Prix-Fix fare for the Broadway going crowd. My wallet, as well as my culinary joy were feeling less secure with every passing moment as my first stab at Hors-d’Ouvres delivered a delicious but dismayingly small stuffed tentacle of some hard-to -et sea bottom-feeder. Consequently, I pinned my hopes on the main course that was represented by some skeletal fish remains that tasted remarkably good despite stark presence of the spinal column, eyes and fins. Alas, the size of the Haut Cuisine wonder assured an empty stomach short of my diving, knees and elbows, into the bread bowl. And this exactly what I did despite some hunkering for a delicious dessert. The latter arrived just in time to extinguish my last hopes for an ample pub meal since it betrayed a puny and yet delicious chocolate chunks mingled with scrumptious dainties of fruit and exquisite, although hardly edible, garnish. While the earlier parts of the meal were mostly accompanied by happy chatter and jokes, the later phase took on decisively sombre turns with Michael doing a solo version of extolling the virtues of freshly slaughtered fish and its natural juices. Whatever the size and apparent lack of sauces, freshly flailed catch was certainly a hit with his penchant for experiences of authenticity and good value for top dollar. His efforts seemed to re-double as he spotted some irreverently unfinished remnants left to their ultimate decay by our Ukrainian friends. Luckily, the dinner ended before he exhausted his repertoire of ever-towering arguments, as the bunch faced with the $600 tab, a blow for my thinning nerves and empty stomach. New York has always had a knack for surprises and it did not disappoint with add-ons to a $45 Prix-Fix, amounting to a much larger than expected tab, for me anyway. But who can place price on friendship, plus I was a scratch for the next stop on the procession route – an authentic Broadway version of Mama Mia.
Since the theatre was just around the corner, we all took turns carrying my light but bulbous bags that ended up accompanying my dear friends right into the cavernous maze of the theatre, as I loathed to unload $120 per for the entertainment already experienced elsewhere. I did make some light body movements trying to locate some cheapish extra tickets, but to no avail – the dismaying lack of scalpers seemed to be the main hindrance. So instead of upbeat ABBA tunes, I turned to wandering around my old pastures in Midtown. Covering some key points of strictly personal interest, I got a chance to remind myself of times high and low in my tenure as a New Yorker. Contrary to my expectations, not that much has changed in this well-established Metropolis, the same neon blitz of the street intersection they call Times Square, same bright and diverse crowds, same “Going out of business” signs on the 34th street, the signs that have served as a snare for unsuspecting out-of-town bargain shoppers for generations. All this with few exceptions, as my dear old EL TORITO in Empire State Building is now gone alongside its perennial companion HOULIGANS, as both have been replaced by much trendier and up to speed brewing establishment. Everything inside reminded me of my younger days except for the menu and decorum gutted by perennially changing tastes and inclinations. Feeling a little saddened by the disappearance of my Alma Mater, I wandered to Madison Square Garden remotely hoping to catch a Nicks game or something. Well, it was not to be, as clearly evidenced by the empty hollow sounds made by my tiring gait. The time had come to reunite with my dear friends and the joyful theatre going crowd, as I impatiently positioned myself in front of the theatre, sharing the moment with the numerous and very much multicultural purveyors of Manhattan cheap rides – bicycle rickshaws.
Rickshaw Diversion
The latter is quite a recent phenomenon that did not exist just a few years prior. I guess the helplessly “burgeoning” American middle class has been shying away from increasingly expensive and helplessly slow horse drawn rides in favour of cheaper alternatives driven by incessant and cheap immigrant labour flow that New York is famous for. These guys seemed to flood all nooks and crannies around the theatre district, seeking to coax tourist dollars at every opportunity. The Mama Mia crowd appeared to be a desirable slice of clientele, as all too many of these guys rode right under the exit sign to catch elegantly cascading tourist cash. The competition was fierce and the seemingly good natured and cosmopolitan clan of riders abruptly turned into strident, individual and ferocious capitalists at the first appearance of potential customers, many of whom were still wearing the last glows of the curtain call on their faces. In order to shake off the magic music spell of the Swedish enchantment and bring them back into the real world of dollars and sense, my clamouring and energetic sidewalks companions started the impenetrable cacophony of bike bells. While each ring, despite the latest in electronic arts and sounds, is able to produce just a pitiful unattractive high pitched falsetto, its combination with hordes of its siblings produced naughty decibels to rival those of a mash pit at a Metallica concert. Naturally, this sudden change in my personal comfort was not going to be bearable if not for soon emergence of my suitcase bearing friends.
The latter did not seem all that pleased to have partaken in the slice of mass entertainment that is Broadway and were only too happy to leave behind the satisfied joy of the fellow spectators and the noise of helplessly numerous and underemployed rickshaws. While the Ukrainian contingent acutely felt the effects of the cross Atlantic jet lag and was nearly asleep during the entire performance, the New York pair was dismayed by excessive numbers of out-of-town guests, especially ones from Tennessee and Upstate New York. Dorin and Michael were especially disturbed by their provincial leisure suits and badly placed exuberance, while the sleepy Ukrainian tandem found the energy to comment on less than impressive stage costumes that did not help the apparent lack of natural beauty brazenly exhibited by main actors, the nerve!. No matter that the play location was balmy Greece hence explaining the absence of Parisian Haut Couture. No matter that Broadway duly praises signing and dancing above other less laborious talents such as physical attractiveness. The experience was clearly below par and nothing could salvage it save for Michael’s employing his persuasive powers once more, this time soundly convincing himself that Broadway shows usually go downhill once tasted by local and certainly more discerning crowds. Mama Mia has been running for years and fell an easy prey to his search for a blissful personal content.
Lenya - the Enigma
After the halitosis-inducing theatre experience my friends longed for a taste of sophistication, so Dorin and Michael’s decision to pay a late night visit to their friend Lenya was a no-brainer. Since my uncouth suburban-ity was carefully prepped prior to the visit, so I would be able to survive the grandeur event mostly unscathed. The event that did not start to be all that promising since Lenya was not at home when we showed up at the doorstep of his lavish apartment foyer guarded by no less than two liveried servants. While our outward appearance alluded to some degree of belonging, we where allowed to enjoy the marble covered floors and plush furniture that did not require any bolting to the floor, as it did not seem to be in any immediate danger of being stolen, unlike other more habitual places such as my old apartment complex in the seedy Whalley.
Biding our time and waiting for Lenya’s midnight return to this humble pad, Michael and I engaged in a high-spirited historic exchange dealing with all matters gruesome – WWII. It all went relatively well until Michael plunged into a persuasive discourse that attributed much larger than warranted, by my historical knowledge, credit to the US in toppling Hitler and his bunch. The sparks started flying with disturbing frequency and, fortunately, before they could stoke up a real fire, the party was adjoined by Lenya and his lively wife Sarah.
Soft and redeeming tones of the warm winter night befitted the gentle outlines of Lenya and his life companion when they emerged from the darkness of the night under the projector lights of the magnificent foyer. She, in her earlier forties and twenty years away from winning the 1984 Miss America crown, was still bearing the brilliancy of that fateful highlight while obviously looking forward to a good night sleep, an inclination that hardly anticipated an Russian intrusion so near the strike of the midnight. He, in his matching forties, exhibited a winningly effulgent and happy countenance buttressed by highly developed bed-side manners and self-assurance fit for the leading light of the modern ophthalmologic science, its practising branch His well-manicured, trimmed and welcoming figure basking in everything exuding class, Bergdorf Goodman and Tiffanies, included soft surgical hands in clasps of an expensive bauble that managed to keep good time much due to its hefty price tag no doubt.
Gracious and benevolent Lenya was delighted, inviting us upstairs into his world that afforded a truly palatial lifestyle fuelled by his earnings of a very successful eye-surgeon with his own clinic employing numerous amounts of peers and boasting the LOCATION – 5th Avenue, Upper East Side. The reliable specimen of modern elevator art whisked us to the top of the 40 story building in mere seconds. The door slid wide open and we walked right into a very expensive piece of private real estate appropriately guarded by silver, and not wooden, phylactery on the door jam – Lenya was Jewish in the best and certainly very expensive sense. I guess a wooden one would not do since the task of protection was larger and more expansive than usual – a 3,000 sq.ft two-story penthouse with an unobstructed 180 degree view of the best Manhattan had on offer. So breathtaking, as I was able to scan from the Empire State and Chrysler buildings into the deep dark recesses of Central Park and the playful lights of Upper West Side in one fell swoop. The night was mesmerising, as all of us hardly managed to free our tired feet of shoes before gluing our faces to the numerous and no doubt very expensive windows. The clear night sky with its scintillating star display could hardly spoil the spectacle that kept me busy from assessing other magnificent features exhibited by this real estate marvel that commanded a modest, by New York standards, price tag of $5 to $7 million.
The unforgettable view almost succeeded in robbing my curiosity of partaking in other pleasures offered by the cosy arrangement that boasted prodigious quantities of marble, Persian rugs and other exclusive attributes of quiet wealth. Barely coming back to their senses, the company quickly split into three camps – American, feminine and masculine. The former was solely occupied by sulking Sarah who did not seem to enjoy our, exclusively Russian, nocturnal exuberance. And since her two sleeping angels were not abut to share their mom’s company, she resorted to simple and silent housewifie tasks of serving sweets and fruit to the marauding crowd of awkward guests. Sarah aside, Dorin and Zhanya enjoyed their feminine time sharing the grandeur of the living room, while the representatives of the utilitarian sex shared a cosy cigar nook – no cigars but plenty of expensive Courvoisier on hand. Awed by the surrounding splendours of Manhattan panorama and shamed by a treacherous sock hole on my foot I was hardly fit for the next phase of the elevated discourse that promptly switched from planetary to more mundane but not less absorbing topics - designer watches.
After being promptly disqualified due to my wearing a twenty dollar Timex piece, I climbed the galleries to enjoy the exchange of titans in the arena below. By now the titans were turning into boys indulging in their favourite pastime of show and tell. Michael was the first to go and right off the blocks he did not fail to impress by dangling his ten-thousand dollar Swiss piece adored with a lengthy recital of its irrefutable qualities. The detailed recital showered the audience with numerous and mostly incomprehensible technical dainties that appeared a little heavy for my uninitiated mind. Ultimately, this heavy barrage of dubious knowledge ushered a new entrant – Misha’s Breguet, which had been recently purchased for an equivalent of about thirty thousand lowly Canadian dollars. This appearance caused a general sense of awe and the elevated discourse preceded climbing nearly philosophic heights around the gilded and bulky body of the exquisite specimen. Much to my surprise this piece was not likely to be considered an etalon. The Swiss wonder was found to contain some well-concealed but nevertheless weighty flaws. The primary charge was levelled against its rather bulky exterior - clearly the discussion was getting ever more unattainable, as I only could imagine the size to be an advantage when parting with such prodigious quantities of cash. Not necessarily…
An apparently deathly grip on the lead did not last all that long for the unfortunate Breguet, as it was treacherously KO’d by a slender-framed and nimble opponent that emerged in a leather bound and very exquisite box resting on caring and very soft surgical hands. The bauble, extracted it from its obscure resting place in the master bedroom, turned out to be Patek Philippe of the fifty-grand fame. The pitch of adulation was getting hysterical as my trusty friends childishly jockeyed for a position just to get a better view of the patented insanity that negated the struggle for world piece and justice among other things from the Miss America circuit. Numerous compliments heaped on the, undoubtedly deserving, owner evinced a great degree of humble soviet beginnings that dovetailed so well with the rest of Lenya’s, most agreeable personality. When it came to the view, “we like it” was the response, and when it came to the watch “mostly for cocktail dress parties” was another. While we were barely able to cope with raging emotions, Lenya remained cool as a rock in the midst of the storm, no doubt encouraged by an everyday Swiss piece that demanded a mere outlay of fifteen thousand for the joy of keeping his hectic existence more or less on time. Luckily when I was about to yawn, the rest of the crowd felt likewise and I did not have to betray my very uncouth nature by requesting an untimely departure. With the watches back in their proper places and the cognac drunk, there was not much left to our imaginative minds but to bid adieu to Lenya and Sarah, who duly emerged from yet another room to give an obligatory good-bye chased by protocol driven hugs and kisses for closer acquaintances. Bye, bye Courvoisier, Swiss masters and the magic view - Long Island here we come.
Long Island
The next stage of the reunion was to take place on the steep shores of the Long Island Sound. The magnificent water view, tireless hands of the chef extraordinaire (Dorin) and a friendly company was just perfect for much reminiscence and good old time. The highlight of the evening was no other than Lenya himself who showed up with his two predictably beautiful and very precocious children who even spoke very passable Russian despite English being the primary language of the household. Much of this achievement was surely due to Lenya’s persistence in hiring exclusively Russian babysitter help who accepted only cash and did not file income taxes.
By now, I was definitely running out of time to find one single fault with this perennially cheerful and good natured chap. While he entertained us with his graceful presence, his wife was avoiding a possible Russian overload with a determinate effort to cover just about any sale sign inside a nearby mall that later delivered a Range Rover full of stuff that had to be unloaded by two burly doormen when back in Manhattan.
She only showed up closer to the end and turned out to be a very pleasant company when I was able to fit a couple of words in. Finding that my persona has arrived from Vancouver gave me a first opening at being noticed among the mounds of designer watches and designer skis, which proceeded to be a topic of yet another very persuasive discourse by none other than Michael. Upon hearing about Vancouver Lenya appeared delighted to have met me, as if anew, while his wife gave the thumbs up to the best place on Earth, discovered when she visited our Strong and Native Land during her heady Miss America days. On one such jaunt she even met a whole bunch of Edmonton Oilers who invited her to a game in the hockey Mecca of 1980s. This experience surely left a lasting impression in her hockey annals as it amounted to a blur no bigger than a puck.
Well, as all good things must come to an end, we had to say good to Lenya and his bunch piling up in the “piece of junk” 2006 Range Rover, bidding “Au Revoir” to yet another chapter of our lives. The next day Misha, Zhenya and I were to take a drive to Washington DC in a red rental Saturn SUV. Misha of course was up to renting a Bugatti, however even the New York market eschewed one way rental of such mobiles, hence compelling us to settle for something out of the sunny Detroit.
Washington DC – Inconspicuous Arrival
The next morning proved a fantastic relief from my nightmarish sleep, as I calmly drove through the New York traffic nightmare with serenity fit for a bright and suddenly warm January sun. Arriving to pick up my friends in their lavish Central Park South quarters was a delight since I availed myself of not only of the top notch bellmen help but also got a chance to have a first-hand look at the amazingly ornate and luxuriously stocked dining room where my dear companions were partaking of their lavish breakfast buffet that commanded the price of a kingdom - $76USD for a pair to be exact. The food looked phenomenal and waiters were just buzzing about in their very crisp and most likely unionised uniforms. They seemed to pay special attention to my friends. At first I attributed this to their lack of bilingual talents, but the Pandora box opened when he scribbled $90 on the bottom of the check. You see, the $76 price tag already included a tip, so the additional $14 was a very welcome addendum for some. I tried to persuade him to re-write the check only to be rebuffed by the complete lack of interest in losing face. Misha clearly preferred to march into the future accompanied by numerous and obsequious help who ran a very little chance of seeing him again anytime soon, on this Earth anyway.
Our departure from New York took longer when we decided on a tour of some key Manhattan sites – we covered the Met, Museum of Natural History, Upper West Side, River Side Drive, Columbia University and the heart of Harlem – in other words the best the place had to offer. The latter was especially interesting, as it sparked the conversation that dealt with skin colour, genes and social engineering. Predictably my strong UN-infused inclinations were starkly juxtaposed vis-à-vis clear racial positions of my dear ex-Soviets. With no one winning the argument, we peacefully disgorged our vehiculo into the wide industrial plains of the Garden State.
The drive to DC was fantastic as mid-day traffic was sparse, conversation lively and coffee on stand-by. Just in a couple of hours, we travelled from the capital of finance to the legal capital of the US – Philadelphia. Here I wanted to introduce my friends to some key points of American history such as Declaration of Independence, Constitution and First Congress. The task was very simple as all we had to do was to show up at the Independence Hall. The place had surely changed more in the last few years, as it had managed in the preceding two hundred, as ever growing security concerns put much in a way of additional checks and barriers that required scanning of bodies, buckles and bags. Luckily, it did not take long to assess the situation in the midday lull, as we quickly gave “mediocre” to the Liberty Bell, zipped past first Senate chambers and scanned the windows of the Constitution chamber. Philadelphia was running short on charms to truly extricate our company from the road fever.
On our way out of the city maze, confused with directions, we came to see how this city of history and lawyerly wealth presented a very acute picture of contrasts of what America really is – miles and miles of grim and indistinguihabke tenements presented a better picture of the every day America than many a film or book. Sufficiently depressed by sunlit and yet uninspiring urban landscape, and with no regret we sped up away to DC.
DC - First Impressions
The arrival to the capital of politics was yet another good lesson in polarization that did not wait to show up. The Hill, which is taken up by the perpetual tug of wars between left and right, Democrats and Republicans, serves as a balancing point between the posh West end, and the poor and ravaged East. Covering the eastern corner first, we got loaded with tension when passing boarded up buildings, lumps of garbage and other many a sign that inexorably pointed to the place in charge – White House…
Well, eventually our tensed nerves got a spa treatment by relaxing and feasting on the grand architecture, meticulously groomed streets and proud mansions of the West. Luckily, our humble abode was to be situated right in the heart of the Ambassadorial Washington – DuPont Circle. But before we got a chance to partake in the embedded comforts of the Washington Hilton, we were duly introduced to one of many vagaries of the grand capital – Washington cab drivers.
I guess being a relatively small place made even smaller by unserviceable East, ridden by gun shots and robberies, the local cabbies had to be extra cute when trying to make a decent living at it. Since running a meter in the cramped confines of the capital did not seem like a good idea, they resorted to the old tricks employed by large utilities – charge by districts. Regardless the distance or travel time, the cheapest and the most expensive ride around the Hill will be about twelve bucks, should you stray away into Georgetown and any other “remote” satellite communities – think $16, and God forbid you should want to cross the eternal Potomac into Virginia and take off from the National Airport – be ready to part with twenty.
Given the system, all a cabbie has to have is a piece of paper that makes references to zones, forget about miles and the meter. As such, our very first DC cab experience was a little disconcerting since we did not know how much we would have to pay till the very end. The experience revived our bargaining instincts – clarify the price before jumping in. And that’s what we did from then on, even though it still did not help all that much. The truth is that we were short on local geography – always to be taken advantage by the local sharks.
National Prayer Breakfast
A typical breakfast takes anywhere from ten minutes to a couple of hours tops, depending on occasion and complexity. The National Prayer Breakfast is a monster by this estimation with preparations stretching for months and actual set of events lasting three days starting with registration. Here we met other Ukrainian, or Misha-invited, participants in the event.
One of them was a president of the Krivoy Rog University from central Ukraine – a stout, proud and inevitably unilingual professor of mining with his wife and daughter in tow. All dressed in requisite furs and with certain amount of aplomb fitting for a newly emerging Ukrainian Nuveau Riche, they nevertheless turned out to be a friendly group eager to learn and taste within reason unless it is called a sandwich. Considering excessive use of bread in American cuisine an abomination, these did not befit their sensitive diets that called for things fresh and continental. Their daughter, Natasha, was an interesting bird – not only sporting some reasonable English but also her, much accepted around the world, Israeli passport – and all despite very Slavic appearance emphasised by no lack of blond hair. All was a legacy of her first marriage to some Russian Jew that arrived with a four-year old daughter and a large bag of life experiences to boot - and all this rounding thirty. With the baggage that included perennial fur outfits, courtesy of the family fortune originating from the mines surrounding her native town, she proved to be a feisty polemic force when it came to issues of war, Bible and race. I enjoyed some of our sharp but friendly exchanges on a number of occasions, making for a good passage of time as far as I was concerned.
Her parents of more traditional ilk predictably exhibited affinity for all things stable, with her mother spending most of her time worrying about her ulcers and husband’s diet. Despite these preoccupations we managed to have a great first outing that took us along major thoroughfares of the great capital including the well-feathered nest of all that mattered here – K Street. Having momentarily observed inconspicuous riches delivered by institutionalised corruption called lobbying, we proceeded to partake in more obvious sights such as White House, the National Mall, the Treasury and of course the powerhouse of them all – the Offices of Vice President.
It is of course rather ironic that these offices in their towering grey presence should present such a contrast to the diminutive outlines of the White House. In the years past hardly anyone had a sardonic thought on the subject, as the perennially weak office of vice presidency could boast just a single point of reference for its impotent existence – its grey and hollow edifice. It has all changed with the ascension of Mr. Cheney of course who de facto runs the country through the puppetry of less than insightful Mr. Bush. Now, this edifice has unshackled its past irrelevance, goading this world’s strong into submission through any means deemed necessary. As naïve tourists still continue drawing their prime travelling experiences from seeing the white washed virtue of the presidential digs, they fail to realise who really rules their lives now – hardly electable, very powerful and the most grey – Cardinal Cheney and his all powerful friends. Forget about Mazarin or Bismarck, the Paix Americana is in now.
Well, back to the reality of the blustery winds as those were just about to obliterate anything standing at the exposed mound of the Washington monument. Luckily, free tickets masterfully procured by yours truly just in time to deny the impetuous winds their final victory delivered the group of six to the top of this apparently the world’s tallest stone structure. As many a tallest, biggest, thinnest and grandest thing tend to pepper the American landscape at amazing rate one tends to be easily set for disappointment all too frequently. Well, this one was not one of them – we truly enjoyed the 360 view from the top through the tiny embrasures, the view that revealed the best the capital has to offer. Warmed up and satiated with sightseeing we took yet another overpriced cab ride back for Breakfast registration.
The elaborate registration procedure stacked up with personal assistants revealed that my help will be unattainable for just about any event within the framework of the proceedings, as only the invitees were given the requisite tickets to meals, talks and other hoopla. Happy to stay away from stuffy meeting rooms, I was looking forward to some frivolous sightseeing.
Flinty Mint
After the registration, Misha got on a glow of yet another scheme that his life is usually full of. Perusing some local newspapers he discovered a great souvenir piece fit for a number of his key business contacts – a one hundred dollar silver plate issued by the Washington mint. This one is great – it looks shiny and presentable, weighty and affordable, as the presumed one hundred dollars could be purchased for somewhere around $90 in hard cash. Something was not adding up - so further investigation was necessary. My efforts led to the highly esteemed offices of the US mint. Being the late hour on the fateful night of the State of the Union Address on January 31, the only US Mint office still opened for the crazy in the world of numismatics was under the magnificent auspices of the Union Station.
Being one of the key architectural digs of the capital, the place where multitudes first came into contact with the great hollow, it never escaped the meticulous attention of federal authorities as a great PR instrument. No expense has been spared to beautify and maintain this historic edifice that boasts magnificent architectural aspects, attractive shops, clean floors and ton of able security guards. A fitting place for the US Mint that occupied a rather humble recess in the main hall, stocked up with coins, pins and a clerk in the business attire, who not only possessed an extensive knowledge of his wares but also was an apparent history buff with no less than a Bachelors degree. Our inquiry regarding the flashy offerings of the esteemed Washington Mint brought on a very definitive and singular response – “Junk”. After all there was a trick behind the private issue of the hundred dollar silver issue costing less than its face value – hmmm.
Unfortunately, much unlike its pretender, the US Mint produced things of value that lacked certain marketing aspects desired by my dear friend. At least before we left the stall empty handed, we were given yet another great hint at our official souvenir hunt – uncut bills by the US Engravings office. This idea excited a great deal of interest in Misha on whose behest those were purchased two days later at the requisite office. Here a great exercise in governmental exclusivity was perpetrated on unsuspecting consumers – while uncut bills exude less effort to produce than their mundane cousins, they command a mark-up ranging from 10% to 15%. Where is justice? I am not sure, but one thing I do know – the jealous and capricious princesses of authenticity always require a premium – whether it is worth it – you decide.
State of the Union
Once outside the storied station, we were just about to partake in the annual spectacle of American politics – the State of the Union Address. Treated by the rest of the world as yet another meaningless speech mostly designed to score in the polls, this phenomenon is certainly looked upon very differently by the politics crazy Washington, where just about any TV channel is overloaded with analysis and speculation about the banal and meaningless. Being caught up right in the eye of this hurricane, we could not help but stroll over to the Capitol Hill to partake in the festivities. Alas, our desire to get closer was hampered by tremendous security circle that was designed to protect the whole of the US Congress, President and foreign dignitaries present at this singularly pompous event. In fact, the security was treated so seriously that even eventuality of a collective demise is taken in consideration when one of the US Senators is chosen by lot to sit out the occasion in a different locale should anything horrific happen to the rest of the bunch. Two hundred years and still counting…
Predictably, nothing was left to chance with literally hundreds of police cars covering every corner, M16 automatic rifles slung on every shoulder, and hovering helicopters guarding the rest. Despite the cold and wind, I was only exceedingly happy to stay around and observe. Alas, my friends were feeling less sanguine with the frenzy that surrounded the event. Their alert levels went especially high when Washington presented its best in the “contrast drama” featuring a crowd of perennial protestors who encompassed just about any strata of society – raging grandmas, “overeducated” housewives and, of course, the most enduring figure of all – hippies, outfitted with drums, horns and specially designed protest bicycles carrying large “Impeach Bush” placards. When passing near the protesting crowd, we observed a van that towed a large propaganda trailer with a huge banner wrapped around carrying habitual protestations against the seating administration. Our few terse remarks on the subject dropped near the trailer prompted a well-versed though slightly accented greeting in full-on Russian, probably betraying an old inveterate American communist. My free market oriented friends, feeling the Kremlin chill, preferred to walk on, past the rows of horse mounted policemen. The latter caused much amusement on part of Misha and Zhenya, as they found much travesty in supplying all these expensive horses with their own food, trailers and limited mobility, serving as examples of waste in the public arena. It looked like my friends understood the positives of capitalism more acutely than their American counterparts.
Having tasted enough of the furious political winds we retreated to a cosy steakhouse for a friendly and scrumptious meal that evolved into an interesting discussion. Observing an apparent and unaccounted-for growth of large fortunes in my native land over the past few years, I was itching to find out - puzzled by the sources of the presumed abundance. Russia has oil and gas, South Africa has diamonds – but what about Ukraine. I kept running into the wall of unknown trying to unlock the secret. Misha attempted to clarify some issues through a number of practical examples – one of them struck me as a particularly amazing story of the Seventh Kilometre.
Seventh Kilometre
Trade has fuelled world economies for centuries, bringing unimaginable wealth to some, death and destruction to others. All and all however, the world without trade is hardly possible. The leaders of the brave Communist undertaking called the Soviet Union thought otherwise, essentially monopolising all trade functions in favour of the state, the mechanism that did not work all that well though. The state was quite adept in building huge infrastructure projects, in creating deadly weapons and in exploiting natural wealth. The state had a miserable record, however, in providing the next pair of underwear, toilet paper or a pair of shoes. So despite all very complicated, centralised and predictably futile methods employed by central planning agencies, the populace’s thirst for simple things of everyday life remained unquenched.
The thirst that could only be satisfied through operations of what we typically refer to as free markets. While the whole concept did not sit well with the authorities, the free markets spurred on by this thirst popped up all over the place – family kitchens, street corners and produce markets that served as a modest model of trade liberalisation for farm goods. All of it had to be done in relative secret and with hope of the blind eye turned by authorities. In large cities where buyers and sellers where much less likely to know each other personally, the brave souls gathered at their peril in pre-dawn weekend mornings at remote parking lots and daily produce markets. I remember hunting for a pair of western shoes was a real adventure in the mid eighties, when we would travel to the edge of the city, to some abandoned produce market that served as a “black market” for all things nocturnal – western clothing, shoes, toothpaste and even toilet paper. The market started at about 5AM and lasted anywhere from two to three hours. All sellers referred to as “speculators” would not spread their wares in attractive and tempting displays so banal and common in the West. Instead, they would carry few items for sale as close to their persons as possible – Turkish scarves around their necks, jeans and shirts in the folds of their clothing and shoes slung across shoulders for better viewing. All this of course was necessary in order to avoid costly confiscations perpetrated by always underpaid and sometimes under-bribed militia.
Life of a speculator in the old Soviet Union was never easy and frequently periled with jail time, confiscations and other draconian ills accorded only to real criminals in the “fair” West. In order to survive with some reasonable success these entrepreneurs had to resort to bribes, lies and power of numbers. The latter was crucial to avoid arrests and other misfortunes. As a result, they tended to loosely band together in the murky pre-dawn hours in some less than conspicuous venues to ply their trade and help out fellow human beings with basics denied by the shoddy state stores.
Odessa being one of the largest ports in the country has served as a trade gateway for at least a couple of centuries. It did not cease to be so even under the parsimonious Soviets, inevitably becoming one of the key points of entry for many western pleasures craved by the average folk. As a result, Odessa boasted one of the biggest “black markets” in the Soviet times. The arrival of the relative freedoms breathed on by the progressive policies of Perestroika created an incredible upsurge in the quantity of goods entering this famous port. Old confines of one of the largest central bazaars could not longer contain the amazing growth in volume of the local trade. The market had to find a new, much bigger location. It had to allow for present needs and any potential future growth. The city itself could not accommodate anything even remotely suitable, so the new site was found just outside the city at the seventh kilometre of the inter-provincial highway – it was just a muddy farmer’s field, huge and unwieldy, with no amenities - the best location city could offer.
After a title search it became clear that most of the field was owned by certain local peasant – Ivan Vassilyevich, who happened to procure the title by a combination of sheer luck and wit during earlier privatisation efforts. Now, instead of owning a dirty and low yielding potato field, Ivan Vassilyevich came into possession of something more profitable as he was in a position to charge rents for any trading stall, large and small.
At first, inconspicuous Ivan Vassilyevich thought of letting it run as it may by simply charging daily rates that were ample enough to provide for any nutritional and other needs of his large family that included five children from ten to eighteen years of age, his wife of twenty years and his ageing parents who could hardly walk after the back breaking years at the collective farm. Daily rates of about $1 per spot delivered at least $500 per week, an absolutely princely sum in the chaotic and desperate times of the mid-nineties when a monthly wage of about $50 was a normal state of affairs.
After a couple of years and ever-growing clientele of buyers and sellers who came not only from all over Ukraine, but also from other more remote parts of the former Soviet Union, the muddy potato field was transformed into a mini city populated by huge cargo containers converted into nearly permanent stalls that provided for storage and display of goods. The idea came out of the need to make the place more appealing and nobody benefited more than Ivan Vassilyevich who collected a monthly rent of $100 from each stall, thus managing to pocket at least $50,000 per month, as the open air market bragged almost five hundred of these $100 per month cargo containers.
Now, not only nutritional but just about any other needs of Ivan Vassilyevich’s household could be amply satisfied by the growing franchise – in fact he did know what to do with the money, buying everything is sight himself – furs, cars and Persian rugs – anything to use money for. Some days he seemed to have so much of this paper that he and his wife just stuffed it in canvass bags and put it in the cellar – just in case. In fact, Ivan Vassilyevich was getting a little lazy and lax as amply evidenced by his growing girth and penchant for celebrations inevitably helped out by large amounts of vodka and salo (Ukrainian lard). Now, he did not feel like dealing with such basic amenities as parking for his clientele when he farmed out the car parking operations to his cousin and neighbour Fedor. Fedor was only happy to partake in largesse measured in a tidy sum of its own.
The burst of new economic fortunes brought on by the earlier years of the nascent century saw the whole enterprise exploding at the seams. Ivan Vassilyevich by now had been forced to convert not only all of his fields previously delivering just meagre potato and corn crops, but also expand into the possessions of his neighbours, as junior partners in the vast undertaking. In fact, not only the place now commanded one of the largest goods and sales volumes in the whole of Europe, it had started trading in its own attributes – container stalls. At first, Ivan Vassilyevich just charged monthly rent and each one could be re-sold not too far off the face value at about $2K. With time the price went up to $5K, then $10K and $25K. Frenzy was starting to bite on and many started to deal exclusively in the container stalls – forget about underwear and bras, too mundane. Even one of our old high school friends, Vitalik seriously contemplated buying a couple only to back away from the visibly overheating market at the last minute. That was three years ago…
Now the stalls fetch anywhere from $100K to $150K per. Monthly rent is about $5K per month – not so shabby considering new amenities such as a couple of motels, casino, makeshift brothels, bars and other places of less than stellar repute. The whole place has been transferred into a satellite city to the old crusty Odessa, and the number of part and full time people employed within its confines has, by some estimates, reached 200,000. Amazing! The place now claims to be the biggest outdoor market in the entire Europe and may be even the world. It is not just a place of work anymore - it is a whole new kind of civilization that caters to just about any human need from birth to burial. Fortunes are made and lost at its high rolling casinos and less than seemly things transpire behind closed doors of its motels. Only few constant attributes remain – ever-pervasive money, mud and Ivan Vassilyevich.
Our trusty Fedor had converted his parking enterprise into a small empire collecting around $2 million per month in parking fees alone. But what about Ivan Vassilyevich you might ask. Well, his resources now compete with those of some princes and kings. His cellar is totally stuffed with dollar bills, his family is on permanent outings abroad and he enjoys himself to the fullest, perhaps even without understanding the full extent of his fortune. On one of his jaunts into the far lying reaches of the port city itself, Ivan Vassilyevich and a couple of his drinking buddies in sullied peasant jackets and comfortable Italian shoes found themselves in the comfy restaurant recesses of even more famous hotel right in the centre of the city. The upper story sea view and prodigious amounts of vodka played a little trick on our dear friend, as Ivan Vassilyevich felt a momentary urge to appropriate the whole hotel. The view so smashing and expansive - in the old Ukrainian tradition, our hero could hardly countenance sharing it with anybody else.
Ivan Vassilyevich demanded to see the hotel owner who had been shopping the property for about $3 million for some time then - all with no notable success. “How much?” - barked the peasant in the sullied jacket and nice shiny shoes covered in potato mud.
Giving some thought to the matter and assessing the state of the peasant’s attire complemented by dirt, flagrantly displayed under the long and untrimmed nails that rested on thick sausage like hands of a farmer, our sophisticated owner decided to play a little prank, just to rid himself of the annoying simpleton and his rowdy crew.
“Fifteen million” – was his answer.
“All right, I hate paperwork and bank drafts, I will give you eighteen in cash on the spot” – was a drunken reply.
While the gaping mouth of our owner was very much straining to close, a couple of Ivan Vassilyevich’s undertakers were it back with a couple of large canvass sacks extracted from the deep reaches of an old Volga’s trunk. The rest was just a blur of a counting feat. Ivan Vassilyevich requested the return of his canvass bags as the only condition – no need to waste good farming supplies…
Two years later: our stunned and flabbergasted, bordering on complete numbness, former hotel owner still counts his stars from his window in a posh suburb of Geneva; the hotel staff is still waiting for the second appearance of their new boss; and Ivan Vassilyevich just got an offer of twenty million for the hotel – should he sell?
Third Character
Still under the spell of the magic Seventh Kilometre story, I was not going to be surprised by anything, as the National Prayer Breakfast festivities got under way. The only missing piece of the Ukrainian delegation was a Vice-Governor of the Donetsk region. He was about to arrive and Sergey together with Misha Z went to the airport to pick this dude. Unlike other participants, he was already on the road taking part in the event not less significant - the World Economic Forum in Davos (by the way, Donetsk passes the MS spell check and Davos does not, hmmm). Having feasted on the snow peaked deep reaches of the beautiful Switzerland, his personal fortunes appeared to have suffered a slight jolt known to many a traveller, as Swiss Airlines lost his luggage.
His Honour appeared to be completely unfazed by the mishap, as he seemed to relish a chance to stop by the lavish local mall. Thirty minutes and three grand later, he was happily outfitted with a new suit, shirt and tie. He survived the adventure with the smile of a champion, no less. And the champion he was, surviving much more than an unexpected shopping trip to Neiman Marcus - an assassination attempt of just two months prior was definitely enough to put a serene face on anybody. His daily concern for personal safety must be something else, since he is an important and close confidant of the current Ukrainian President Yushenko who came to power on the coattails of the famed Orange revolution much to the chagrin of Moscow and their Ukrainian mafia subordinates running out of their headquarters in none other than Donetsk itself. The immediate proximity to the den of thieves must have taught him a lesson or two.
While Misha S was all about understanding this difficult position by citing fluently many useful and well-rehearsed arguments by pointing out among other things the fact that the city of Donetsk registered somewhere in excess of 500 ordered killings in the past year alone. This was unlike our strident and soft-faced University professor, supporter of the Russian faction, who had hard time finding emotions to emphasize with his political rival. “They do it everywhere” was his habitual reply. Witnessing the heated political atmosphere of DC must have been helpful to his position with one little disadvantage – there was a stark lack of blown up cars and gunned down victims polluting the scene of this fiercely partisan metropolis. Well, at least our eastern political lights chose to keep their gloves on, preserving the civil conduct fitting for the occasion – no dynamite this time.
Unlikely Friends
During the first full day of the proceedings, Misha S, Misha Z and two other dignitaries were took their turns rubbing shoulders with some rich and famous who attended the National Prayer Breakfast. The highlight of the day was their meeting with Benazir Bhutto herself. I was sorry to have missed the opportunity to even fleetingly meet with this famous, brave and very Muslim woman – at least I was happy to see that both Mishas had a good time smiling and posing. I would be smiling too for a chance to pose with the former Prime Minister of Pakistan for a dose of irony, as the most “free” society of the United States is left standing with few remaining dinosaurs of France, China and Congo that have not yet experienced a true example of liberation – a female leader.
On the other fronts, the apparent lack of bias towards anything specific at the Prayer Breakfast was revealing. There was a lot of movement, constant swirls of activities and much in a way of ecumenical processions. Here were the godless Ukrainians snapping fraternal pictures with Bhutto, the Muslim, there they bumped into some US evangelical stars, sharing a large restaurant table with Orthodox Coptic priests. In the opposite corner, the space was ceded to Catholic prelates in stiff white collars and sporting Reformist Jewish rabbis shuffling by in their perpetual Yarmulkes.
My narrow, mostly Protestant, mind was stretched a little too far, I have to confess. When it came to Orthodox and Catholics, I typically assume a very conciliatory pose – after all, not many in the reasonable centre could accuse them of denying Christ to the point of spiritual demise. So having a prayer breakfast with any of these folks does not seem to be an issue at all. And yet the event, attracting just about any other monotheistic religion under the sun, produced more questions than answers for more folk than just myself, I bet. Surely, there is nothing wrong with meeting people of different faiths, discussing one’s differences and similarities – trying to build a common ground for good. However, sharing a non-proselytising prayer in such cases does pose a tremendous onslaught of unease to the weak of faith - as in such cases faith is in danger of becoming just a cloak that covers not much more other than the varnished vacuum, from a religious point of view anyway. If only Christ can reconcile – how can an open denial of his authority be so widely tolerated?
National Gallery
Attempting not to dwell on more difficult and challenging aspects of my theology and prompted by a bright and unseasonably warm day, Zhenya, I and a pair of fur-clad madams decided to enjoy the delights offered by the capital city, away from the heavy engagements imposed on the breakfast participants. The main port of call for the day – National Gallery – was a fantastic place to recharge oneself with tons of energy and creativity inspired by the best of the best from the centuries past. Never a great museum goer, I always enjoy a piece of haute culture in moderation and this place seemed to be just a rightly sized bite to sink my teeth into.
As any half serious connoisseurs, we decided to do everything very systematically by starting from the earlier masters of the 12th and 13th centuries and slowly preceding up the time lane. This seemed to be the only way to partake in the earlier and certainly less inspiring art of the Dark Middle Ages, which if taken in isolation can hardly be enjoyed by starring at the gaudy flat figures inevitably dolled up in expensive robes, and nearly always topped by expressionless faces. However, since remanding such images to my memory creates an inexorable and much desired contrast to the overwhelming advances of the intriguing Renaissance period. Having mostly glazed over earlier transition pieces, we were delighted in the best of the great Italian revolution – De Vinci, Rafael, Botticelli and Titian were, of the course, the focus of our attention. Not only these guys managed to absolutely transform the very art of painting with mind-boggling perspectives, wide array of colours and very advanced techniques. They did it with Godly inspiration no less. They also managed to breach the stultifying nature of acceptable by their significant expansion into all things new – portraits, ancient pagan tales, nifty daily scenes and well fed nudes – were put forth to the delight of many.
When marching through the parade of earlier flat faces one gets a sensation of dryness and quiet boredom. When sidestepping through the Renaissance, dryness gives way to utmost degree of satiation, while quite boredom bows to curiosity and inquisitiveness. Sufficiently replenished we were glad to take part in some less-elevated and more mundane but yet extremely well done works of the later periods – Greensborough, Caravaggio, Goya and others were just marching past us in their unending and flagrant display of talent.
Then colours started getting decidedly deep as we stepped into the wood panelled halls of the Dutch masters who were much more prone to depicting the very live itself during the days when Holland was on the top of the world. Well, as all good things tend to come to their glorious end, Dutch merchant empire ceded to intellectuals of the enlightenment that produced much in a way of progressive, although somewhat blurry, ideas ranging from Laisser-Faire economics of Adam Smith to Communism of Marx and Engels. This plethora of thought must have given artistic geniuses many a creative headache, as how to keep up with the whirlwind pace of technology and science. Inevitably, such blurry ideas did produce some matching and very blurry art of Monet and Van Gogh. Forget precise lines and meticulous detail – the vestiges of lush artistic past succumbed to the onslaught of unearthly hews and unfocused thought fragments. After resting my eyes on carefree mood pieces of Monet interspersed with numerous moods of Van Gogh self-depictions, the world around me seemed to slow to a standstill of serenity, completely disengaged from any outer intrusions just like after a smoking some good dope, I am told. Blissfully continuing along, we ended up in the front of the entrance to the key exhibition of that day – tens if not hundreds of Ceasan were starring at us in their flagrant display of self-adulation. Unfortunately for them and their creator, Zhenya and I just could not summon enough energy to submit our poor eyesight to yet another level of concentration, necessary to properly imbibe the presumed beauty of the uncertain and even blurrier art. Zipping by Ceasan with speed matching his prodigious output of green and pastel, we burst with our last strains of depleting energy through the heavy ornate doors of the national treasure to partake in the smouldering remains of a great sunny day on the National Mall.
Surprise
The fateful morning of the great breakfast affair did finally arrive. Although not expecting much in a way of personal experience, I was still excited by waking up early and taking a morning jog down to the Washington Hilton. One might recall that this place serves as a stark and very concrete reminder of the 1981 assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan. Well, the presidential security detail has learned a thing or two since then – as my bold attempt to sneak through the fateful lower hotel entrance was handily rebuffed by some plain-clothed muscular types. Instead of trying any further, I decided to bide my time by sticking around observing the hoopla with swirling police helicopters, men in suits and some bald Albanians demonstrating in the morning chill, clamouring for Kosovo independence. Very exciting and palpable scene I must say. Alas, after a while the morning cold started piercing my conspicuous spandex, chasing yours truly to the warmth of the indoor TV reception.
Luckily, being quite the stir on the Washington scene, the event was broadcast in its entirety. While the majority of the affair was conducted in a very bipartisan and ecumenical style by a number of US congressmen, everybody was of course holding their best impressions for the key note speaker. Not suspecting any surprise, I was caught unawares when the camera revealed the star speaker - none other then Mr. Paul Hewson himself – much better known by his, you guessed it, nickname – Bono! This was truly a remarkable treat, as Bono, in indispensable orange glasses that take up at least half of his face complemented by day old stubble and perennial biker leather wears, was a true and totally unexpected addition to the event that typically boasts US presidents as principle and yet less than magnetic attractions. This was great and Bono did not fail to impress with his studied and off-the-cuff comments peppered with self-deprecating humour and some verbal roughage featuring very juicy and marginally tabooed “ass”. The presence of other notables including George W. did seem to put Bono even slightly off his beat when demanded doubling US foreign aid amounts to be doled out to the poorest of the poor – the African continent. Bono was fantastic – precise, funny and forceful with just few smidges of political incorrectness. His highness was the certain highlight of the otherwise bland affair, drawing roaring applause, “gesturings” of friendship and goodwill from W. This was a true Microsoft Spell Check moment!
When given the floor, W. and every one else in the room knew that the pinnacle of the event has zipped by. Consequently, W. remarks were mercifully short and to the point providing for a graceful exit from the presence of much bigger, brighter and certainly more popular Orion of pop culture. The exit of the Pres was crowned by the final prayer of King Abdullah of Jordan. The latter, uttering praises to all powerful Allah, brought this decidedly Christian undertaking to its gloriously empty end.
I was so elated and filled with enthusiasm for my Misha’s that I hardly needed a breakfast myself – the Breakfast with Bono filled me up for the rest of the day that still held a couple of engagements for my tireless politicians. Isolated by the even passes, I was only happy to share yet another glorious day with my wife, monkey and the habitual female contingent in tow. Even missing Bono and his presidential security contingent by a couple of seconds in the Hilton foyer did not spoil my day, especially since my celebrity cravings were partially satisfied with the sighting of Kathy Lee Gifford the night before.
Having my senses prepped up by the occasion, spotting Frank Gifford in the elevator was hardly a problem. The rest was even simpler, as Sergey and I followed the hallowed Hall of Famer into the lobby restaurant, right into the brilliant ambience of his perpetually upbeat and talkative wife. Having occupied the nearest possible table, we witnessed firsthand the effects of Kathy’s mouthy ambitions, as she could not keep her mouth from running hundred miles an hour even for a second. Obviously, she needed a listening outlet after saying good-by to the chatty Regis and his crew. The breakfast event seemed to be just a perfect opportunity to have her opinions heard and shared in a circle of numerous acquaintances proudly sitting at the table and imbuing in her “celebrious” charm.
Closing Dinner
This was a funny little occasion that brought much in the way of laughs for Tracy and I. First of all, like all large venue events this one was set on a deteriorating pattern pretty quick when it came to its presumed exclusivity. As the first few events of the proceedings were carefully staged and monitored, with everyone having to carry their official event tickets, suits, ties and cufflinks, there was hardly a chance for riff-raff of our ilk to sneak in. However, once the main security laden appearance of the Pres was behind, the event organisers exhaled a much needed sigh of relieve and let the riff-raff run lose on the rest.
The closing dinner in the grand room that seated at least twenty five hundred decked out guests and hosts was just the occasion. All of the Ukrainian types counting my wife and the kid got together in the main foyer to receive the last battle instructions from Misha Z who turned out to be extremely worked up by our apparent tardiness of about five minutes. He was so red and indignant like he was late for a treasured audience with the Pope. Well, his abrupt momentary manners made us leave our wits behind in a blind desire not to whiten his palpably seething rage of a perfectionist.
Seeing our fast approaching contingent with a baby carriage and a red faced, forehead veins popping, organiser, the dressed to kill guards were surprisingly lax despite our apparent lack of requisite tickets. Once inside, we witnessed an incredible scene of orderly chaos, as every Dick and Harry showed up to enjoy a free meal with some high priced entertainment to follow. The room was the proverbial den of incessant activity – overworked, run-off their feet, elderly waiters whizzed by, decked-out and pomaded evangelical patrons chewed, and we, madly zigzagging in the last gasp attempt to reach our table, gasped at perils of colliding with yet another bucket of clam chowder. Employing our best hurdling abilities, we finally managed to leap frog through few last barriers to the focal point of the evening – a table occupied by a couple of indifferent Russian dudes who would not have ever given a hoot had we not showed up at all.
Bringing our pulses down to a level manageable, we settled to a mass produced meal of clam chowder, steaks and Fletch look alikes carrying immense trays of overflowing food bits and dirty dishes. The organisers of the event, taking the Bono’s plea for African help in stride, seemingly decided to overwhelm themselves in a mound of leftovers before settling in for a comfortable and extremely calorific dessert chased by the entertainment that featured among other things a very famous Christian band “Mercy Me”. Completely unaware of their pop chart status, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Tracy and Sergey were more than delighted to witness their “little idols” life and most importantly for me “free of charge”. What a way to score some points. Just Great! Now with my stomach full, my suit uncomfortable, my dear wife happy, we decided to split, to forestall a bone crashing experience of a coat check rush.
Ovechkin
Much of our last full day in Washington was spent in preparations for the key trip event – attending a Capitals game with their youngest and brightest star Alexander Ovechkin. Despite his Moscow origins and my best marketing effort on behalf of the struggling Capitals, I was unable to convince more than seven brave souls to grace the event at a reasonable price of $35 per, as I was not willing to part with $90 for prime seats in presumably empty building. I, of course, was counting on some seat jumping later on in the game.
Meeting with Monkey, Tracy, her friend and friend’s daughter I was anxious to witness the key part of every professional sporting event – the warm-up. Undeterred by the lack of cooperation on behalf of my high tech digital camera contraption, I zeroed in on Ovechkin, enjoying his prodigious individual skills with a handful of others congregating around the home team tunnel, as hardly anyone bothered to check out other losers of late – Toronto Maple Leafs. Sensing a chance at real proximity to the Russian celebrity I resorted to the bottom-feeding exercise of fame brushing – screaming out players’ names as they walked past us back into the dressing room. While Canadian Jeff Friesen received his dose of my cheerful English, German Olaf Kolzig got some of his German back, and Ovechkin received my best version of a Russian encouragement. I felt like paparazzi desperately working the red carpet. Well, enough of the excitement for my poor nerves, it was the time to join my friends in the nose-bleed section.
Everybody, especially Misha and Zhenya, were delighted to be there since it was their first time in such large indoor arena and they were enchanted, especially since the main attraction was the Russian superstar who pulled in major marketing dollars for the team. His name was everywhere as his ruddy and pimpled face smelled of money – forget about European economic models, he scored and they counted.
Trevor’s appearance at the venue made little noise as usual, as Misha and Zhenya at first took our seventh member for an unfortunate mute spectator hemmed right in between some rowdy Russians, hence making a couple of pertinent remarks, luckily framed in the native tongue, leaving Trevor unperturbed. The introduction was of course in order. Once done the jolly company proceeded on their way of chanting, screaming and assessing the game. The latter was the real hit for Zhenya and Misha since it was the first professional hockey game of their lives. Fortunately, Ovechkin mostly met our high expectations by making a key assist and always buzzing in the general proximity of the net, jumping on any half-chance he got.
The first intermission siren announced the beginning of the seat safari for the four risk-takers – Trevor, Misha, Zhenya and I. The stadium in DC is a three-tier affair that presented a strange picture to some from hockey-mad Canada. While the first and third levels were relatively populated, the second level was practically empty with few lone survivors. The answers seemed to lay in the fact that the second level was entirely devoted to club seats that obviously yielded little and yet were not open to the public to the public – what a waste of some five thousand perfectly good seats with decent lumbar support. The club seats had more guards and guests! Having not even tried our luck here we promptly switched our attention to seemingly greener pastures of the lower bowl. Unfortunately, I did not count on one adverse eventuality in my brazen undertaking. In places that do not exhibit much in the way of empty seats such as GM place at home, the seat jumping police is basically unnecessary since proud ticket holders of police against unwelcome visitors themselves. Here, the market rules are enforced by firm and unforgiving regulators – the ticket clerks that occupy every niche and cranny of this establishment. If in GM place a seat poacher can count on squatting on a foreign property for at least a minute or two, taking advantage of their fat-walleted occupants buying overpriced beer and over-watered coke, here we were sternly denied even this pleasure.
Battered and humiliated by these stalwarts of the regulated capitalism, we struggled back up the stairs to take a few gulps of the rarefied air in the quest for enjoyment of the “bargain” tickets. Luckily, the boredom of an average NHL game was mostly lost on my excited friends on their first visit. They much preferred this to Mama Mia and even got into cheering, clapping and fuming over an apparently inane tactic of puck dumping. You see, such disgust for wasted passes is so deeply ingrained in a Russian soul, that even my novices could not resist their genetic make-up that gave birth to the unique and flashy art of Russian hockey back in the equipment bereft postwar days of 1940s. Our phenomenal Ovechkin did well - his eagerness and zest seemed to be the only uplifting factors in the Washington’s tepid effort over even more lacklustre Leafs. On paper he only got one assist, but on the ice he was a crucial impetus towards two more meaningless points and a “4 to 1” score line.
Side Trip to Morocco
The evening was not over with the final whistle, as four of us – Zhenya, Misha, Trevor and I had yet another venue to crash. Much to everyone’s dismay we were ripped off by the local taxi cab establishment again, in the worst way this time. As we were leaving the arena, I had an inkling that our Moroccan restaurant was supposed to be just around the corner. However, my facilities for reasoning were cut short by the pressing deadline of the fifth person meeting us at the location – Natasha. Grabbing the very first cab, we subjected ourselves to yet another $12 dollar tab, this time just for three short street blocks before we were unceremoniously dumped in front of our establishment. Exhibiting a certain lack of prudence by whipping out my whole three thousand dollar wad out of my pocket in the full sight of that greedy bastard, the driver, I had to almost fight him to whittle his, hardly obligatory and very clamoured for, tip to just two dollars. He acted as if entitled to at least half of my hard earned wad. No love lost and welcome to Marrakesh – the biggest surprise of the day.
Knowing Misha’s strong adherence to all things Continental with a general aversion to ethnic surprises, I was taken aback in the view of his earlier declaration to attend a special Moroccan delight that still had a strong hold on his memories of nearly eleven years ago when his highness first graced the capital of the free. Now, when I first saw the object of his colourful memories, my interest soared – this was in complete opposition to a typical staid, white table cloth, establishment tending to traditional palates. This low one-story building, situated right on the cusp between Washington have and have-nots, butted a dark nondescript stone building on one side while attempting to stay in balance against a vacuous nature of its other neighbour – a creepy gas station with bars on windows. The yellow painted exterior exhibited a total lack of any windows, adornments or signs save for a lonely string of Arabic letters presumably spelling “Marrakesh” – wow, and this within five blocks from the Capital. Somebody, alert the authorities or at least call Fox News as they are running out of the material.
Once behind the heavy metal doors of this undoubtedly former car repair shop, we plunged right into the exotica itself. Almost all staff of the establishment not only exhibited a certain degree of the South in their countenance, but also wore matching garb more common in the sukhs of any Eastern bazaar than on the venerable steps of the Capitol Hill. A hostess in her early twenties escorted us into the den of diners, sliding along in her slip-on shoes mostly obscured by ornate flowing robes, punctuated by a number of bangles on her feet and arms. The dining hall itself must have been in violation of a number of Federal safety statutes, boasting no windows, tons of eastern carpets, cushion, pillows, rags and other easily flammable textile products. Instead of tables of traditional height and spacing, each group of diners, regardless how small, had its own nook with a round table towering no more than a foot and a half above the ground. These were surrounded by low lying sofas and myriads of cushions that created surprisingly intimate atmosphere despite a complete lack of any partitions and heavy presence of numerous patrons. Municipal occupancy limits were flagrantly violated. So much so that for the first few minutes, I felt as if in a notorious “speak-easy” of the twenties, enjoyment and fear of a police raid mixed in one – shot of milk anyone?
Instead of a police raid, we a got a single version of well-handled wine list that exhibited an abysmal dearth of merchandise except offering some unnamed wines of presumably African variety. Any mention of a menu was did surface at all. Luckily my desperate musings were interrupted by the arrival of our waitress who had fitting dark skin, a cheerful vestige and flowing robes with bangles all over. Matching her ad lib appearance was the offer – a seven course meal for everyone, no exceptions and no a La Carte. Since nobody around seemed to be complaining, we acquiesced to the magnanimous offer, I did not even ask the price. I guess just getting in was a treat enough; forget about the price, individual plates and utensils – just do not piss off the help.
After providing personalized hand washing service featuring a common dish filled with lukewarm water and extensive hand rubbing, we were supplied with old but clean and somewhat pressed cotton towels for our hands that were about to get a full work-out, the one usually doled out to forks and knives. Each dining group at this establishment received the same treatment regardless of size – one plate for each course for all, varying in size to accommodate approximate eye measure of the cook vis-à-vis each party.
My quick trip to the local bathroom revealed a potential clue to the invincibility of this unsafe entertainment, as the walls around the place exhibited smiling faces and signed portraits of just about any famous politician of all political stripes including the most unlikely visitor – W. himself. I guess true exoticism trumps prudence in the name of political correctness and diversity. I doubt that a windowless steakhouse with table dancing and suspect food handling routines would be as favoured that close to the Capitol Hill.
Speaking of dancing on tables - it did not have to wait all that long. As we were just about to dig into our third dish of the evening, the already obscure and dusky ambiance of the Caravan Sarai plunged into utter darkness illuminated by the perennial safety hazards – personal fireworks and little flaming torches carried by numerous food servers turned performers. In just a few seconds, their quick and able hands erected a round dancing surface right in the middle of the floor that featured as a perfect stage for a lone belly dancer who managed to keep our eyes glued, senses captivated and bodies pitched forward for almost half an hour. The scene was rather interesting considering that the dancer herself was a Caucasian girl who despite her unfortunately light and starkly glowing in the dark skin managed to hold the audience ensnared for the whole spectacle. She only left after numerous and enthusiastic waves of applause.
The first dish was a vegetable medley that tasted sort of Mediterranean, although I was not quite sure whether the salty sauces arrived at the behest of the kitchen or my own fingers. After that dishes kept coming in a steady procession – meat, more meat and yet more meat. We covered the whole pallet from tender lemon chicken to less known lamb and other interesting morsels. Some dishes were quite delicious while others managed a little less success including the cinnamon covered phyla bun stuffed with chunks of chicken, tasteless egg omelette and almonds. Predictably, everyone dug in through the bland chunks of omelette to get in to more palatable chicken and almonds – away from the nefarious presence of incongruent cinnamon and dirty fingers. Needless to mention, this and a couple of other dishes turned out to be a real slobber. It was even more difficult for me as I had to spread my energy between food, entertainment and translation on Trevor’s account. By the time a huge dish of sweet melony couscous arrived in tandem with some less than appetizing pieces of boiled squash, our eyes and appetites finally gave way to emergency lights of satiation and fatigue. We were flat-out exhausted after the endless succession of ethnicity that included chunks of baklava left untouched with the last and welcome item beckoning soon exit – artfully presented tea with tons of sugar. The latter was served in small thick glasses grouped together under a tea kettle held up by the artful waiter -suspended at least two and a half feet above the glass tray. He poured unflinchingly. Amazingly enough, this remarkable presentation hardly left a single wasted drop of the syrupy substance anywhere but in the glasses themselves. Lingering under the spell of the tea service that was the closest thing to toxic pleasures of the East, we enjoyed an unexpected treat of modern Russian pop music that suddenly substituted Moroccan medley in the later part of the evening. This slice of sweet home brightened up some sullen faces around the table, especially Misha’s who was sulking deprived of the kalian pleasure. As far as the US fire regulations were concerned, we all could be sacrificed on the exotic altar of unsafe standards but, God forbid, we should engage in a causal use of an ancient eastern smoking implement – remember the Surgeon General!
After the tea service, the place started emptying like the Titanic – I guess one can sustain only so much of exoticism in the middle of other, more or less hedonistic pleasures, available in the heart of the “God” fearing nation. The night was still young for most and the exit sign demanded everyone’s attention.
Au Revior
Eventually, the time had come to put this saga of banal and inadvertent to its resting place until the next time Russians/Ukrainians decide to swallow a piece of western propaganda. Misha Z, Tracy, Sophie and I were off to the West Coast; Misha and Zhenya were flying to catch the last round of festivities on a luxury yacht down in Miami, the land of short shorts and flabby legs; Trevor and Sergey were staying put keeping a tight eye on Ovechkin’s successes and the Krivoy Rog bunch together with the Donetsk kamikaze went back to the polluted but comfortable environs of their status existence.
