Five days in Siberia

PROLOGUE 
Walking through the cobblestone streets of Prague for the last time until who knows when, I stop to think about the blissful days of witnessing such beautiful architecture, when in a passageway I look to my right and see a modest chocolate shop. It was at that very moment that I was left with the best memory of having met this woman. I took the small liberty of stealing a bit of her time by introducing myself, and as we talked about a bit of everything, night fell. Perhaps it was her simplicity, perhaps her humility, or perhaps the same intrigue that chased us both. After a failed attempt to ask her out that same night, without thinking too much and with an adventurous soul, I promised to meet her again far away from where she came, Russia. 

THE LEAP 
A month later, after surviving two weeks of the harsh winter in Kyiv, I realized I only had one week of freedom left. At 3am, still fighting my insomnia, I sat on the couch in front of the hostel reception. Something told me I shouldn't sleep, and that's when I received an email: "Here is my phone number, I hope to see you again." (even though she had told me she didn't use social networks, I don't know what I was thinking when I asked for her email instead of her phone number). Immediately, I wrote to her, "What part of Russia are you from?" - "I am from Novosibirsk." Before the receptionist fell asleep, I asked her, "Do you know where Novosibirsk is?" She half-closed her eyes and with a playful gesture pointed right behind me at a huge world map on the wall. With astonishment and terror, I exclaimed, "Siberia?" - Da (Yes). Without thinking twice, I plotted my new route, leaving behind Krakow and Kyiv to take a flight with a stopover in Minsk-Moscow-Novosibirsk. With considerable uncertainty, I shed my foolish fears, facing and resolving some setbacks.  

THE LAYOVER 
Upon arriving at the Minsk airport, a hostile, large woman at the control desk attended to me and asked in a threatening tone, "What do you plan to do in Siberia?!" Timidly, I replied, "Umm... learn the language and make friends." - "Welcome!"  
After making her smile, I headed to a desk situated in the middle of a huge, completely white hall where two young receptionists were attending. While reviewing my papers, the smile of the girl who was attending faded, and in difficult-to-understand English, she warned me, "Be careful! Your luggage in Minsk, you in Siberia." - "What?!" - "Your luggage stays in Minsk!" - "What should I do?!" - "Run!" Going from corridor to corridor, all I found were doors and more doors without knowing which was the right one. I froze when one of the receptionists placed her hand on my shoulder, "Come, we'll try something else." After several calls, they managed it: "Your luggage is on the plane." - I breathed deeply - "But you only have 10 minutes! Run!" Just what I needed... now I would miss the flight and the luggage... Rushing through the corridor and after showing my passport four times, I arrived running at the boarding gate. With the last bit of air I had left, I exclaimed the flight number. The silence of the people filled the room, and the stewardess announced that the flight was delayed by 30 minutes... I almost fainted. I took a seat, trying to regain my energy. A group of Kazakhs next to me asked where I was from and where I was going, "From Argentina to Siberia" - "That’s far away." All that remained was to endure the 7 hours at the Moscow airport until taking the next flight and surviving the Siberian cold. 

DAY 1 
My language was no longer anything but crude sounds to these people, and I found myself alone once again. From the airport windows, I couldn't distinguish the gray of the sky from the gray of the snow or the gray of the people boarding a camouflaged, military-gray trolleybus without windows. "Is there a taxi?" I asked the only person who spoke English. "Of course, there are taxis," the bank cashier replied with a smile. I had no choice but to trust Vladimir, a gangster-dressed driver with an unfriendly face who communicated via a translator. The post-apocalyptic scene on the outskirts of the city, with those giant neon signs written in Cyrillic, the monolithic, crumbling concrete buildings, and the empty streets made me reflect, "There are no people begging on the streets here… because they are buried under the snow." After an hour's journey, I reached my destination. "Vladimir, do you know where the hostel is?" - "Nie znayu" (I don't know), he said and left. Like a panopticon, a brick building rose surrounded by groups of buildings that served as walls. After walking around it, I realized there was no entrance until I closely observed a white sign written in big white Cyrillic letters "HOSTEL". Looking at the snowy ground, I found my lodging underground after passing through two doors. In that long, narrow, and white hallway, a tall, thin, and tired man emerged from the left. Realizing I couldn't communicate, he called his colleague, a young man around my age, who was also tired and irritated. He explained with indifference the details of my stay in English, seriously emphasizing, "No alcohol… if we catch you drinking… straight to the street… understood?"  
Being the only guest, not knowing the language, and with a rather bitter welcome, I closed the door of my room, as well as my appetite. I dedicated my time learning Russian, telling myself, "If I don't speak, I don't eat."  
That same night, I wrote to her, "I've arrived, I'm in Novosibirsk," to which she responded, "Oh no! My city is Barnaul," about 400 km from where I was. After a brief pause, I replied, "I'm on my way," to which she immediately countered, "No, I'm coming." Just then, a serious-looking man entered the room. I gave a slight smile and greeted him in Russian, "Priviet, izvini, gabarish pa anglisky?" (Hi, sorry, do you speak English?) In a dry tone and without any expression, he replied in basic English, "I'm not here to talk; I'm here to work. Please respect my rest," and nodded as he turned off the light.  

DAY 2 
The next day, the hostel was full. A group of young people with oriental features looked at me, and their teacher unexpectedly greeted me in English, "Hello, where are you from?" I replied, "From Argentina." "From Argentina?! Excuse my excitement, young man... We are from the Tuva region. You are the first foreigner we have ever seen in our lives. What has brought you from so far away?" With great surprise, the teacher introduced me to the young people, who, with great curiosity, asked me about my homeland, just as I asked them about theirs.  
With little food, I left the hideout to stock up. To my disappointment, I could only find the bare minimum: pasta, rice, tuna, cookies, and tea. Back at the hostel, I encountered someone who perfectly fit the stereotype of a Russian man that I had in my mind, intermingled with my imagination. From head to toe, I describe: Barefoot, large hands and feet, taller than average, burly with an unbuttoned shirt, Slavic features, prominent cheekbones, very dark hair, a blind left eye, and a long scar from the eyebrow to the left cheek. For a moment, he reminded me of a good mountain ogre who had lost his bear coat. At that precise moment, this "fantastic being," with a gruff voice and minimal English vocabulary, extended his arm, engulfing my small hand with his, exclaiming with a strong Russian accent, "Argentina, nice to meet you." This lazy giant took refuge in one of the upper beds in the room and only came out for food or necessity. In the kitchen, I met the group from Tuva. "You will be our guest for dinner tonight," announced the teacher. The group of students started preparing everything in the kitchen until serving the dishes at the table where we would toast. I no longer felt alone.  
Even though there were no windows to see the passage of the day, it was already late at night. I had lost communication, and feeling somewhat worried about her, I once again felt a void, a strangeness, a lack of enthusiasm. The Tuvan teacher, amazed by my adventurous spirit, lying on his bed parallel to mine, whispered after closing his eyes and with a sigh, "Oh, young man, why have you come here? Life is very hard here for someone like you." He looked at me, "So I must be prepared." From his pocket, he casually drew a gun magazine, "See? This is Siberia." 

DAY 3 
3 AM, the time difference was still disturbing me, but not as much as my desire to see her again. It was just when I was about to fall asleep that something fell rapidly from above, crashing to the floor... with heavy, chilling steps that, despite not being able to see it, I felt very close. In the middle of the room, a dim light turned on, showing someone searching for something. Unexpectedly, the light went out, and silence prevailed... my bed sank abruptly, and in the pitch darkness, his enormous face and his white, scarred eye appeared right in front of me, illuminated by the same dim light. Placing his index finger in front of his mouth, he whispered, "Argentina, shhh." He extended his arm under the bed, while I barely had seconds to imagine the worst... and found his bottle of vodka. After pouring himself a drink in a medium blue cup mixed with a bit of soda, he asked, "Argentina, you want?" to which I responded with bashfulness disguised by a slight and insecure laugh, "Hehe, niet, niet, spasiva" (no, no, thanks). He downed his drink in one gulp, followed by a loud, multi-toned burp... then, after giving me two pats on the back, he whispered, "Argentina, good boy."  
That same morning, having barely slept, I went to the kitchen where I met a young couple. The young man spoke some English, and his girlfriend spoke only Russian, both from Barnaul. By chance, I asked if they knew “her”, though their answer was no. They radiated a beautiful and deep connection as they cared for each other, it was comforting to see. He had been bitten by her cat the day before arriving at the hostel. She tenderly assisted him, while he looked into her eyes concealing his pain and humbly exclaimed, "Thank you," to which she simply responded without breaking eye contact giving a sweet smile. He told me that he had saved her from a traumatic episode after her father's death. He remarked that having distanced herself from her friends she attempted suicide, which I confirmed when noticed a deep scar on her right wrist. That same afternoon, I said goodbye to both of them. He needed to go to the hospital as the infection in his arm was worsening.   

DAY 4 
I woke up to a message from her that I hadn't read. She was on her way, delayed by a long and complicated journey, accompanied by a friend. That morning, I tried to contact her but received no response. Still in my bed, I felt someone was behind the door. It was one of the guys who worked at the hostel, and it was clear he intended to scare me. He switched on the light, entered the room, and stood a meter away from my bed, greeting me with "dobroe utra" (good morning). I half-opened my eyes and replied, "dobroe utra." Suddenly, the young man pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. If I hadn't seen it before, I would have been really scared. "Niet, niet…" (no, no…), I said, and the guy burst into laughter and left. A few minutes later, I went to the kitchen to make breakfast. When I entered, I met the guy who had received me on the first day, the only one who spoke English, and with whom I finally had a pleasant conversation. The rest of the reception guys stood in a corner, led by the hostel owner, a large Moldovan man, all in their underwear, listening to our conversation. Unable to understand a word we were saying, the owner muttered something, and they all shouted together, "BALALAIKA!" After freezing for a second, I asked the guy, "Isn't a Balalaika an instrument?" Trying to contain his laughter, he replied, "Don't worry, don't be afraid. They're just mocking us because they don't understand." At noon, I decided to go for a walk to clear my mind. Walking calmly down the long avenue filled with shops not far from the hostel, I came across a beautiful snowy park, perhaps normal for the locals but greatly appreciated by a foreigner. Following the path, I saw some interesting buildings that I couldn't help but explore. Hours passed, and as I sat on the steps of a church, she replied to my last message, "I'm very sorry, but I don't think we can meet. A tragedy has occurred in Kemerovo." "See? This is Siberia." Feeling confused and distressed, I made several unsuccessful attempts to talk to her, only to realize that my selfishness had once again taken control. After much persistence, I gave up, and letting a tear fall from my eye, I wrote, "I'm sorry. Do what you feel is right. I hope everything goes well." 
She asked when I would return. As my way of seeing things was different to hers, I couldn't reply. Living in the present without projecting into the future left me with a big question I couldn't answer. Hours passed, and at 5 PM, she messaged again, "I have decided to come." I believed her. It was 7 PM… then 9 PM…. I was laying in bed with dwindling hope when another message came: "Sorry, I'll arrive at 11 PM." By now It was 10 PM. I tried to set aside my anxiety, recalling some meditations, starting with body recognition and then opening each chakra. Although I had never tried it before, with each opening, I unconsciously tried to connect with her astral self, synchronizing the corresponding chakras. With each opening, I saw and felt her getting closer and closer.  

DAY 5 
It was midnight, having crossed the last chakra and on the verge of deep meditation when she sent one final message that opened my eyes: "I'm outside." In disbelief, I wrote back, "Come in, the door is open." I got up from my bed, feeling a bit stiff and tired. Then I saw her enter, wearing her wool hat and holding a box of chocolates, which sparked a childlike tenderness in me that I hadn't felt in a long time. It's hard to describe my feeling; stunned and confused, I approached her, hugged her, and shyly kissed her cheek. Whispering in her ear, I asked, "Why did you come?" She calmly replied, "To meet you." Still in disbelief, I said, "I can't believe it." She, unfazed, with closed eyes and a slight smile, responded, "We are crazy."  
I had to be at the airport by 5 in the morning on the 5th day. She said she wanted to accompany me. With such a warm reception, I felt at fault. I had always been one to give gifts rather than receive them, but this time I had nothing to offer but my time. Despite the uncomfortable environment, the language, the culture, and many other differences, we managed to have a deep conversation where she concluded, "I have to confess something... that day in the chocolate shop, I felt like I knew you from before, maybe from another life."  
On the hallway couch, with her permission, I rested my head on her lap. I simply thought that this was it, that it was the end. She, very tired, decided to go to sleep. At that moment, before she entered her room, I looked at her and said with the most sincere and profound intention possible, "You are beautiful." I tried to kiss her, but she turned her cheek and gave a playful smile. 
She only slept for a couple of hours and I slept even less, and yet she still kindly accompanied me to the airport. We held each other the entire way not wanting to let go. Together we shared a meaningful silence, sitting on two chairs, where I gently held her hand and said, "The world is forgetting so much. Patience, respect, understanding, empathy, touch, reality." 
Just before I left, I said goodbye to her. I tried to kiss her, and again she turned her head to the side. With a slight embarrassed smile, I asked, "Why not?" She returned the smile, replying, "I am cold." 
I tenderly kissed both of her cheeks. When I was about to turn around to head back home, she took my face in her delicate hands and gave me a big kiss on my right cheek. "Have a good trip, maybe next time." 

Maybe it was my ignorance of her culture, maybe my culture is very different from hers, maybe we simply didn't feel the same way.
I still wonder what she thinks, what she feels, what she wants, what she desires. I promised to see her again.

I proposed that she travel with me next time, but it's up to her whether to continue this story.   

• Story by Matías Nahuel Cichero Gómez

• Based on real events (a Trip in 2018)

• Argentine with Spanish nationality and resident in Barcelona