Episode 11: Blue nails on Nevsky
Blue nails on Nevsky The inconsolable thing about opinion leaders is their staying power. Blue nails on Nevsky Saint Petersburg Heaven! I'll be there in a minute. Visual arts, music, and poetry. The Russian soul: the nuances of life. – Laughing and crying. – Loving, arguing, and reconciling. – Embarking on a new era of self-determination. Creative and protective. Welcome back, you who were never really gone. Globally connected, grounded in Europe. Saint Petersburg, you beauty. – Why am I sitting almost alone on the plane? Didn't the world hear the bang? It did. The starting signal did not go unheard. It was spring. That was definitely in the air. I didn't care what else was floating around in it. That changed in the days that followed. With seventeen passengers on board, the plane from Helsinki was not a heavy weight of enthusiasm. We were early to get behind the now holey Iron Curtain. My preparation shone in the form of two stacks of documents, addresses, and reservation confirmations in my handbag and neck pouch. I had covered myself almost to the point of being fussy. Everything was organized. Of course, I also had the confirmation for the transfer from the airport with me. The elegant top hotel on Isaak's Square would send a car. It was more important to me to get there and meet Lena. Culture? Sure. But my husband had turned it into a Mayer performance. I flew to St. Petersburg for a quick week. If Armenia had been my destination, I probably would have taken blood reserves with me. At least, that was the recommendation. I even had tickets for the Mariinsky Theater. Everything was fine. – Until we landed at the junky airport in St. Petersburg. At first glance, when I saw the terminal, I was completely fed up. All my expectations of substance had gone up in smoke. Well, I had talked myself into the idea of self-determination and integration in my eagerness for the hoped-for overwhelming experience. That it was new was undisputed. It was completely foreign and had no roots anywhere—these are facts. These require a clear eye and staying power. In any case, this is not something to be swept under the rug. “Oh, you poor shit?” I'm sure no one heard me. – Although, something suggests otherwise. It was like recognizing by the smell that you are in a hospital. At the “airport,” perception had all dimensions. An intrusive presence of movement but inertia, aspiration but negligence, sentimentality but selfishness. – The thirsty rigidity in a beehive after someone had distributed self-help and success guides. – Nothing worked. Nothing happened. No check-in. – I went through myself, looked for my luggage, rushed out, and looked around. Nothing. No shuttle, no taxi, hardly any people, just faces hanging or drooling and sniffing with greed. My excitement beforehand was not unbiased either. It had bid farewell to the poisoned field with a bang. It had taken the cloak of hospitality with it. Patience is not a hindrance to waiting. My sometimes bitterly emerging toxicity may be a triggered defense mechanism. As a representative of the “weaker sex,” I perhaps aimed to remain attentive and defensive. The mere assumption of my helplessness really drives me up the wall. I was at one hundred and eighty miles per hour and still accelerating. Lemon, lemon. Secretly direct “Can I help you?” asked a neat, unassuming man in English. His voice was the opposite of my first impression of Russia: clear, steady, yet agile. Looking at the front area, I hadn't noticed his impeccable approach. He had actually dared to speak to me. Brave little guy, I countered silently, ready to really let off some steam. “How could you? What kind of shitty country is this? Nothing works here. Everything was ordered and reserved, and not even the damn car to the hotel is here.” “Ah, you're Italian?” He didn't back away but came a little closer with open arms. Maybe he tilted his head to the side. It's possible that he smiled or laughed. I have no idea. I was preoccupied with myself. “No, German.” “So, you're a German Italian. Very pleasant. My name is…” He introduced himself. “I'm from the Russian secret service. We'll get this sorted out.” At least his name doesn't seem to be a secret. Or it's just as out of place as I feel. With his confident and open-minded demeanor, he smoothed things over in no time. He waved over another man dressed in a suit just like him. The two spoke briefly. Given the nature of his profession, I didn't feel any crackling tension. The second agent disappeared again. We stood in front of the entrance and talked about hard-hitting, investigation-worthy data: our families, my travel plans, and Saint Petersburg. I was down from my high horse. A black stretch limousine—more than that, a Russian-made state car—stopped right in front of us. The driver put the luggage in the trunk, and the secret service agent opened the door. I thanked him with a quick hug as I said goodbye to the old-school gentleman with a new approach. Convinced of my comprehensive knowledge of human nature, I saw no risk in getting into the car. I hadn't seen a secret service ID. Otherwise, it could have said anything. With excited curiosity about the most European Russian city, I sat in the back of the movie-worthy car. The wave of elegance, growing with every fantastic impression, sloshed from side window to side window. The buildings, the Hermitage art collection, and the attitude to life were waiting—for Anna. My inner weather was full of sunshine, and I was looking forward to seeing Lena. She was standing in front of the hotel with her boyfriend Andrej when the unusually unmarked car pulled up. I hadn't noticed her because I had rushed straight into the lobby. The revolving door showed what speed is. While checking in, I heard a dull knocking and saw