“Sure,” I said when my friend D asked if I wanted to go take night scene pictures in the small Black Sea coastal town. The night was warm and humid from the ocean breezes and plenty of street sellers were outside well past ten pm.
“So do people sit at home until 10 o’clock at night and then say, ‘hey, I think I need some dried apricots, let me just run down to the sludge-filled street really quickly and grab some from the old lady sitting outside with her scarf in the night?’” I asked. Our group nodded with confusion and amusement as we looked at the strange scenes. A skinny, hungry dog made its way around our legs.
“Let’s get it something to eat,” someone suggested. We stopped in the store, grabbed a raw hot dog, chopped it up and fed it to the mangy animal. He didn’t like it and instead spit it back onto the cracked cement. Weird.
The rest of the group took off toward our hostel and D and I proceeded down the street toward some of the rickety stalls. He asked, in Russian, if he could take some pictures of the peoples’ wares. They said yes. I shot a few photos of a watermelon sellers sleeping by their goods on dirty mattresses. Fully dressed they just plopped down and fell asleep next to their stands.
“Are you Russian?” they always asked him.
“No,” he would say. “Jewish.” And then they would nod their heads knowingly, which I found to be odd-- as if being Jewish and speaking Russian were somehow resolved in that little interchange.
D talked on and on and since I didn’t understand a word they were saying I wandered the alley for a bit and then returned to find D now conversing with a young man.
“Do you want to go have some Turkish coffee with this guy? He asked us to his house,” D asked me.
“You’re kidding me, right? You don’t honestly want us to go with a stranger to his house?” I asked. Visions of me being sold to a hairy, gold-toothed smuggler flashed before my eyes.
“Why not? It’s their hospitality code,” D answered and my mind flashed to two months prior when he asked me to go hike around some mountains with him and then see if someone in a random village would take us in for the night. But I trusted D (in spite of his previous idea and his tendencies to go into conflict zones on a repeated basis) and so we went.
Yeah, so is kidnapping 14 year old girls for brides...I thought.
Our new friends’ house was ornately decorated and smelled strongly of body odor, which I learned, came from our shirtless, hairy, friend. The moment we walked through a curtained door he turned on his television and ordered his younger sister to bring us treats. The television is a sign of wealth and if you have one, well, you better show guests it turns on and works as well.
D and the man chatted and chatted while I stuffed cherries and pears into my face wanting to show my appreciation but knowing that often such hospitality is given even if the individuals can’t afford it. It’s a terrible bind to be in as a guest.
D’s and the man’s face seemed to animate each other with stories of the small town which was formerly a semi-independent province run by a drug lord/mafia who housed an elaborate crime unit within his “domain”. I couldn’t help but wonder where this relatively young man’s apparent wealth was coming from.
Soon his sister and his mother and some other people were surrounding us—clucking and talking and smiling. I was clueless but thoroughly enjoying the scene. D and the guy continued to talk, then D talked to the ladies. Then D translated so I could talk to them. My eyes began to sag after a long day of swimming in the sea and exploring the village. Guests floated in and out of the glittery room as Russian continued to hum in my ears.
This scene would repeat itself throughout our time there. We would be doing something of an inconsequential nature and then suddenly we were in someone else’s home, eating someone else’s food and hearing stories of someone else’s life. If it hadn’t been for D I am afraid my experience in those places, and many others, would have been quite flat and dull. It certainly wouldn’t have included the isolated and marginalized elderly, the poor as well as the beautiful orphanages, the street scenes in hidden places, and explorations border-lining insane.
And I think that’s D’s gift to his friends and family--- if he doesn’t take people into unique and needy places himself, he finds those places, collects them up in his mind and heart and then spills them back out on those he knows when he returns. Whether it’s in writing, story telling, social action or simply taking off into the wild yonder, D has adopted the hospitable nature of the places where he works and tours. I’m so glad he passed it on to me, in spite of some of the oddities of it. And I hope he continues to do it where he is now…in yet another unique and far away place.
Happy Birthday tomorrow D--- try to remember to pack heat or mace or something, ok?
“So do people sit at home until 10 o’clock at night and then say, ‘hey, I think I need some dried apricots, let me just run down to the sludge-filled street really quickly and grab some from the old lady sitting outside with her scarf in the night?’” I asked. Our group nodded with confusion and amusement as we looked at the strange scenes. A skinny, hungry dog made its way around our legs.
“Let’s get it something to eat,” someone suggested. We stopped in the store, grabbed a raw hot dog, chopped it up and fed it to the mangy animal. He didn’t like it and instead spit it back onto the cracked cement. Weird.
The rest of the group took off toward our hostel and D and I proceeded down the street toward some of the rickety stalls. He asked, in Russian, if he could take some pictures of the peoples’ wares. They said yes. I shot a few photos of a watermelon sellers sleeping by their goods on dirty mattresses. Fully dressed they just plopped down and fell asleep next to their stands.
“Are you Russian?” they always asked him.
“No,” he would say. “Jewish.” And then they would nod their heads knowingly, which I found to be odd-- as if being Jewish and speaking Russian were somehow resolved in that little interchange.
D talked on and on and since I didn’t understand a word they were saying I wandered the alley for a bit and then returned to find D now conversing with a young man.
“Do you want to go have some Turkish coffee with this guy? He asked us to his house,” D asked me.
“You’re kidding me, right? You don’t honestly want us to go with a stranger to his house?” I asked. Visions of me being sold to a hairy, gold-toothed smuggler flashed before my eyes.
“Why not? It’s their hospitality code,” D answered and my mind flashed to two months prior when he asked me to go hike around some mountains with him and then see if someone in a random village would take us in for the night. But I trusted D (in spite of his previous idea and his tendencies to go into conflict zones on a repeated basis) and so we went.
Yeah, so is kidnapping 14 year old girls for brides...I thought.
Our new friends’ house was ornately decorated and smelled strongly of body odor, which I learned, came from our shirtless, hairy, friend. The moment we walked through a curtained door he turned on his television and ordered his younger sister to bring us treats. The television is a sign of wealth and if you have one, well, you better show guests it turns on and works as well.
D and the man chatted and chatted while I stuffed cherries and pears into my face wanting to show my appreciation but knowing that often such hospitality is given even if the individuals can’t afford it. It’s a terrible bind to be in as a guest.
D’s and the man’s face seemed to animate each other with stories of the small town which was formerly a semi-independent province run by a drug lord/mafia who housed an elaborate crime unit within his “domain”. I couldn’t help but wonder where this relatively young man’s apparent wealth was coming from.
Soon his sister and his mother and some other people were surrounding us—clucking and talking and smiling. I was clueless but thoroughly enjoying the scene. D and the guy continued to talk, then D talked to the ladies. Then D translated so I could talk to them. My eyes began to sag after a long day of swimming in the sea and exploring the village. Guests floated in and out of the glittery room as Russian continued to hum in my ears.
This scene would repeat itself throughout our time there. We would be doing something of an inconsequential nature and then suddenly we were in someone else’s home, eating someone else’s food and hearing stories of someone else’s life. If it hadn’t been for D I am afraid my experience in those places, and many others, would have been quite flat and dull. It certainly wouldn’t have included the isolated and marginalized elderly, the poor as well as the beautiful orphanages, the street scenes in hidden places, and explorations border-lining insane.
And I think that’s D’s gift to his friends and family--- if he doesn’t take people into unique and needy places himself, he finds those places, collects them up in his mind and heart and then spills them back out on those he knows when he returns. Whether it’s in writing, story telling, social action or simply taking off into the wild yonder, D has adopted the hospitable nature of the places where he works and tours. I’m so glad he passed it on to me, in spite of some of the oddities of it. And I hope he continues to do it where he is now…in yet another unique and far away place.
Happy Birthday tomorrow D--- try to remember to pack heat or mace or something, ok?
-
|
