Lost memories

How many memories have I repressed? Have I suppressed them? Have I lost them forever? Are they locked in a magical closet, and I have the key, but don’t know where the closet is?

Why don't I like fish or seafood? I lived by the Caspian Sea till I was 17 and loved fish and caviar before I turned 4 or 5. There is something fishy about me not liking fish and seafood.

Why don't I remember my brother well? Why don't I remember my brother when we were children? We were only three years apart. I left home when I was 17 years old, and he was 14. Is it because he died young at age of 29? Why don't I remember him when we lived in the same city for two years when we were in our 20s? Do I have a guilt that I am enjoying privileges that my brother did not live long enough to enjoy himself? Watching his son growing. Watching his son getting married. Watching his son turning into a man. Becoming a grandfather. Being there for your grandchildren.

I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed sitting on the floor of my living room for long hours when I had been told of my brother’s death. And with every sob, pain and anger flowed out of my body. I cried for him. I cried for my mom without him. I cried for myself without him. I cried until no more tears came. Then I felt deflated. I accepted my brother’s death. I felt no pain, just emptiness. I let my brother go. Did I let memories of him let go too?

Why don’t I remember my father well? Is it because he was an alcoholic? Is it because my parents divorced when I was 12? Is it because at my brother’s funeral I found out that my father had died two weeks before my brother?

I never really missed my father after my parents’ divorce. Is that bad? He was an amazing father, but his hard drinking brought chaos to my life. He loved me unconditionally, but it was not enough. He had tenderness for what I was and respect for what I was to become, but I didn’t care then. Three days after my brother’s death I accepted my father’s death. I didn't sob for my father. I just let him go, too. Did I let memories of him go too?

My memory loss is a bit sad. I want to remember my imperfect father and brother, as their hearts were filled with love and kindness. And I miss their love and kindness.

Life Observations - Observation #2: What do I miss about being Russian?

“When I'm in Canada, I feel this is what the world should be like."

Jane Fonda

 
In 1998, I chose Canada and in 1999 Canada chose me back. Our “arranged engagement” happened at the Embassy of Canada in Poland, Warsaw. My knowledge of Canada was very limited then: it’s vast and located north of the USA, it has a red maple on its flag and it has two official languages. The Canadians I met in Dubai were extremely nice, but a bit boring to my Russian standards. A year after my “engagement” to Canada, I left familiar Kazakhstan with no expectations towards unfamiliar Canada. When I landed in Toronto, I knew that it was love at first sight…
 
What do I love about Canada? And what do I miss about being Russian (I am Kazakh, but by Russian I mean all people who lived in the USSR or now live in post-Soviet countries)?
 
Love for Canada
1. I love our beautiful vast and untouched land. Canada is the second largest country in the world, Kazakhstan is the ninth. My ancestors were pastoral nomads (it sounds so romantic, doesn’t it?) so I have this unexplainable fondness for vastness in my blood. I can easily imagine how almost 500 years ago Jacques Cartier, the French explorer, was shocked by the vastness of Canada’s territory when he first arrived here. Travelling along the St. Lawrence River, Cartier asked two aboriginal hunters where he was. The answered “kanata” which is the Iroquois-Huron word for village. I guess we are all just one big lovely village.
2. I love Canadian kindness. Kindness is natural here. Trying to understand why Canadians are so kind is the same as trying to understand the mythical and elusive Russian soul. It just exists. This kindness is so kind that it let me be ignorant of my own unintentional ignorance. This kindness is so kind that it makes be a kind person too (I am kind from time to time). This kindness is so kind that I don't have an urge to break the rules anymore (I keep this urge under control). This kindness is so kind that it makes me a better person despite my little faults (I may not have any faults left after almost 17 years of total kindness).
3. I love Canadian inclusiveness. Diversity, inclusion and cohesion were vital to me (I exaggerate here because I love the word “vital”) during Soviet era. And they are vital to me (I exaggerate again) now. They make our “Kanata” unique, comfy and welcoming. 
 
Nostalgia for being Russian
1. I miss partying a la Russe: when you start an evening with ridiculously fun people who know how to party, immediately forget about political correctness and oversensitivity, joke inappropriately non-stop, have a wild time, break a few rules and feel extremely alive!
2. I miss drinking a la Russe: when you enjoy the passionate late-night debates with your drinking companions about weird stuff that makes total sense at night and no sense at all next morning, feel the depth of yours and others’ souls, express emotions in their purest form, feel endless poetical love towards strangers and humanity, make crazy plans and remember to fulfil them in the future, wake up with a severe hangover, but feel extremely alive!
3. I miss living with a la Russe intensity: when you have and feel everything in exaggerated form, observe tragic sensibility and shocking frankness, act spontaneously and unpredictably, be more flashy and less underdressed, experience fierce loyalty and endless resourcefulness, ignore small talks and routineness, long for the unknown and uncertain, indulge in philosophical and dreamy laziness, show optimism and fatalism at the same time, embrace a sudden change of plans and new opportunities... and feel extremely alive!
 
Sir Winston Churchill once defined Russia as "a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” Do I still have the key to this riddle?!

"Wisdoms" I've learned so far - "Wisdom #2": Your bucket list. Dream it. Have it.

"History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it."

Winston Churchill

Three years ago, I became very curious about bucket lists. I found that the biggest motivation behind a bucket list is a desire to shake up a routine and live a regret-free life. I also found that a bucket list usually covers the following main areas: places to visit, goals to achieve, experiences to live and skills to master. In other words, the bucket list should be the ultimate list of all your lists. It should uplift you.    

Inspired, I decided to write my own “Bucket List before 50”. I collected different ideas for my list. Research is not my forte, so the list was very generic. I shared the list with my husband and my friend in Toronto, but never converted it into a real list of “50 before 50”. There were 38 items on that list: 10 were related to travel and 28 to experiences. They were not even my items, but random ideas from internet.  

A month ago, I was going through my email folders and came across this long forgotten list. Of course, some items on the list, like “Drink champagne at the top of the Eiffel Tower” (I imagined that this would not happen at the Bar à Champagne, but that the sky would rain champagne right into my flute), “Go skinny dipping with girlfriends” (not sure when this will happen as some of my girlfriends are afraid to even pee in the sea), “See the northern lights” (I live in British Columbia, Canada, so I don't even need to travel to Norway or Finland to see the Aurora Borealis) or “Stomp on grapes in a vineyard” (once again, I can stomp here in British Columbia, I just need to visit our great vineyards in the Okanagan) have not happened. At the same time, I was surprised to see that many items have actually happened, not exactly as they were written, but very close. I will not go through the full list, but here are some of my favourites. Reminder: I am a “glass half-full” person. 

1. “Dance in the rain” 

I want to write here that I was dancing and singing in the rain like Gene Kelly “I'm singing in the rain, Just singing in the rain...”, but that would be not true. What I did in 2015 was not dancing in the rain, but swimming in the tropical rain. Not once, but twice, during our trip to Thailand.  

The first time it happened in Koh Samui, the island of coconuts and beaches. I was there with my two sons, as my husband had left to Siem Reap (Cambodia) to explore Angkor Wat, the largest religious monument in the world. It was early afternoon on our second day in Koh Samui, when the rain started. My younger son and I were in the sea. Every hotel guest collected their belongings and ran to their villas. The beach was abandoned. The sea was quiet. The rain was strong and warm. We were so amazed by the power of the nature that we could not leave the sea. The contrast of the underwater and overwater experiences was unforgettable. The world under water was peaceful and quiet. The world over water was disturbing and dynamic. We wanted the rain to last forever. 

The second time it happened in Railay, the small peninsula in Krabi separated from the mainland by magnificent limestone formations (the only way to get there is by a long tail boat and the only way to get around there is to walk). It was late evening of our last day in Railay. My two sons and I were still at the beach. Suddenly it was a full-on tropical storm. The scenery was terrifyingly beautiful: dark clouds, lightning on the horizon, naughty waves, explosions of thunder and heavy rain. Just as in Koh Samui, all the hotel guests ran back to their rooms and only the “Russian” guests (my sons and I) run into the sea. We enjoyed every drop and every wave. We screamed with joy so loud that two young German guys joined us in the sea. The experience was liberating. It was our dance in the rain. 

2. “Win an award” 

In December 2015, I really won an award. I went to our department holiday party to support my colleague who was getting an award. It was a surprise for her. We cheerfully chatted with our colleagues, enjoyed wine and food. Soon the department head got on the microphone and announced the award ceremony. I kept my eyes on my colleague, as I did not want to miss her reaction. When I heard my name, I first froze and then almost jumped with a joy. I had no idea that I was getting the award. It felt good. It felt rewarding. 

3. “Use a waterfall as a shower” 

It was not a romantic shower with a random hot guy (or with my husband) in the early sunshine or at night under the stars in the middle of a tropical rainforest. It was a refreshing shower at the Wang Sao Thong Waterfall, a very-very-very small waterfall with a small natural pool and a breathtaking view of the mountains. The walk there was not easy as the path was tricky and unpredictable. In some areas, we would climb up holding the ropes and wearing Crocs shoes was not helpful at all. After twenty minutes I was hot (not as hot as the random hot guy), sweaty and red-faced. I definitely did not need any guys around. The shower under the smallest waterfall in the world made me feel alive again. I remembered a small waterfall in a small pool in our villa and made a mental note to recreate the romantic shower with the imaginary random hot guy there.  

4. “Go white water rafting” 

It was not white water rafting at all. It was the ultimate thrill swim with the whale sharks in the choppy water off the coast of Isla Holbox, where the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea merge. When I signed up for the swim, I thought it would be a leisurely swim in the open water. What I did not know is that it would be a challenging and competitive activity in the open water. First, I needed to jump in the water on command from the speedboat captain. He looked like a real pirate of the XXI century. I cannot be easily intimidated, but I would probably jump in the water with real sharks on his command (not the first one, but on the third for sure). Then I needed to do a speedy swim in a snorkeling gear towards the whale shark chosen by our pirate-looking captain. I cannot breathe freely with my mouth, so snorkeling is not always a smooth experience for me. I decided not to risk my swim and asked our cute tour guide to jump with me and another woman and hold my hand during the swim. After that, I needed to make a 180 degree turn with an “Olympic” speed when we saw the massive mouth (approximately 1 meter) open like in an eternal howl.  

Finally, I needed to do another speedy swim along the whale shark (they are slow-moving creatures, but they are 6-10 meters long). I did it all, with the help of the cute tour guide. Choppy open water, speedboat, pirate-looking captain and enormous creatures with their massive mouths - it was nothing like white water rafting. It was racing with the shark whales. 

Just telling you these stories makes me crave new travels. I will definitely make my real bucket list this summer. Moreover, I encourage you to write down your own list of dreams, desires and whims to pursue adventures, new experiences and fun.

PS. This morning I learned about an amazing project “Life List” by Danny Dover. He should complete the entire list of his 150+ item by May 25, 2017. Danny also posts a monthly LIfe List, an assortment of free and easy activities that you can do right away.

Life Observations - Observation #1: Time goes faster as I get older

“I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.”

Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

This is exactly how I felt when I was a child. My imagination was almost limitless. We lived behind the “iron curtain” (“iron curtain” was a geographical, political and informational separation of the USSR and Eastern Europe countries from the rest of the world from 1945 to 1989) and that would stretch my imagination even more. During the day I would dream of space trips, adventures in Africa and a victory of communism around the world (I genuinely believed that there would be no wars, no boundaries between the countries and we all would be the comrades forever!). At night I would look at the patterns on the wall, the carpet by my bed or on the wallpaper in my room, or check the frost images on the window, or trees behind the window, and I would create a parallel world full of beautiful places and magic creatures. Back then, every day and every night felt like an eternity. Every summer was endless. Every winter was desirable and never enough. Everything was memorable and unique.

As I was growing up, each year would go faster and faster. And I loved it. I wanted the first time events to happen: school graduation (I do not miss it at all, hope that doesn’t sound sad, does it?!), first love-second love-just love-was it love, university graduation, first job-no job-many short term jobs, first business, first and seems like last marriage (I always dreamed of three husbands, but no one listens to me up there, you know where; in his defence I forgot to ask for three marriages), first child-second child-no more children, first trip-second trip-many trips, etc. Everything was novel. Everything was exciting. Fast was good, fast was the norm.

I always believed that at middle age, life would slow down. I thought that I would have all the time in the world to reflect on life and relationships, analyze new ideas and make them happen, and never to multitask during my morning coffee. On contrary, I found that each year goes by faster and faster. Why does time have to race? Psychologists explain this phenomenon by fewer memorable events and new experiences in middle age (it’s not a numeric milestone anymore and no one wants to be categorized as middle aged). The days blend together. In other words, routine becomes the norm. Routine is comfortable, but... Routine makes life unremarkable. Routine does not make distinct memories. Routine makes time fly by.

Can we slow down time? Yes, we can. Please, please, please do the following:

• Live in the moment and notice beauty (a cliché, but try to master it in any situation, even, I mean especially, if you are surrounded by mediocre and boring people). Lovely things happen, when you are in the moment.
• Do new experiences and learn new things (another cliché, but try to make it big; use your time and brain wisely). This makes you sharper than ever.
• Make your dreams-goals-opportunities list! You may call all it LIFE list, BUCKET list, DREAM list or YOU NAME IT list (not a cliché at all, it’s “Wisdom #2” from my list of “Wisdoms” I’ve Learned So Far, but I will tell you more about it in my next post). Live with zest for life and own your desires.

"Wisdoms" I've learned so far - "Wisdom #1": Your childhood story. Let it go.

“One day someone is going to hug you so tight that all of your broken pieces will stick back together.”

Author Unknown

"Wisdom #1": Your childhood story. Let it go.

We all have a child within us… the one with dreams, hopes and imagination. And we often carry unresolved stories like buried traumas, feeling unloved, betrayals, feeling rejected, broken hearts and wounded spirits, from our childhood into adulthood. These stories often drive our adulthood behaviour one way or another. As children, we are confused and can't tell our stories straight. As adults, we are mature and can clearly hear what the child within us is trying to say. At some point in our life we should re-experience, re-understand and repair our stories. This experience is awkward and surprising, but it's also very rewarding. We can't keep sending the child deep down in our unconscious mind. We should let the child go and be free. And we should let the stories go too. We can’t bottle up our emotions. We should unburden them.

My main story is growing up with an alcoholic father (unfortunately, not a soft and humorous one) and then having a fatherless childhood. Although I have never experienced a strong emotional impact of my dad’s alcoholism, sometimes I wonder if I would be a different person, if he didn't drink.

When my parents divorced, I felt such a relief - no more chaos at home. My dad had died when I was 32 (we met 3-4 times after the divorce). I never even thought about being fatherless till my 40s. My dad failed as a father, but he loved me unconditionally and tenderly. By tenderly I mean... Dad was usually sober in the mornings. On school days he would let me sleep till he prepared my school uniform, polished my shoes (people who lived in USSR or currently live in post-Soviet countries know that you need to polish your shoes daily there) and made me hot breakfast. Then he would gently wake me up at the very last minute, feed me breakfast and help me put on my shoes. Each time I would tell him to wake me up earlier next morning, but he never listened to me. He had tenderness for what I was and respect for what I was to become. My memories of him fade more and more every year, but I know that he will always be an inseparable part of my life.

My dad’s alcoholism and my fatherless childhood taught me to laugh and cry in the same sentence (children of alcoholics are also quick thinkers and have a great imagination). It taught me to accept loss and adore myself in all my imperfections, dignities and sins (did I tell you that I was born with a PhD in self-love?). It taught me not to yearn a childhood that I was never able to have and to put it in the closet (you never know when you may need your cool childhood you never had). It also taught me that there is no loneliness and that love is all around me (you basically can’t avoid it). The lessons were glorious, especially the one about love.

Love can be lost. Love can be found. Love lost and love found are romantically described in one of the never sent letters of Lenny Belardo (the Pope Pius XIII from “The Young Pope”) to a California girl he met before joining the priesthood. Lenny’s admiration and love touched me deeply. Enjoy the masterpiece of love below and the divine voice of Jude Law.

“What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don't laugh at me, my love. I know it, I'm awkward and naive when it comes to love, and I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find... or to lose?  All around me, people don't stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can't say. An orphan has no way of knowing. An orphan lacks a first love. The love for his mama and papa. That's the source of his awkwardness, his naiveté. You said to me, on that deserted beach in California, "you can touch my legs." But I didn't do it. There, my love, is love lost. That's why I've never stopped wondering, since that day: where have you been? Where you are now? And you, shining gleam of my misspent youth, did you lose or did you find? I don't know. And I will never know. I can't even remember your name, my love. And I don't have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.”

What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found?

Turning 50

“Do not worry about avoiding temptation. As you grow older it will avoid you.”

Joey Adams

In June 2016 I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that I would be turning fifty in 352 days. My heart was racing, and my brain was telling me “You are becoming middle aged (not really, I am not in the middle)! You are entering an entirely new demographic group (not really again, I have already been offered a senior discount at Shoppers Drug Mart)!” There was something about turning fifty that freaked me out that night and left me sleepless.  

I literally had a panic attack. “What would I tell people when they ask me my age? I cannot even say “fifty” out loud to myself. Fifty is definitely not the new 40, fifty is 50! It is easy to accept that I could not turn back time. It is hard to accept that I could not turn heads anymore. F-i-f-t-y is scary!”  

At the end of my panic attack, I decided that I would not celebrate my fiftieth birthday and would just go away somewhere. The thought was so liberating. I would go to Tibet, Nepal or Bhutan (I could only picture myself somewhere in Himalayas) and come to terms with fifty there. Somehow, I thought that holy lands and high altitude would take all my worries away. I also decided to do a challenging kora (a walk circling a sacred site) around the base of Mount Kailash in Tibet and became a renewed person on my fiftieth birthday. Kailash is a sacred mountain for four faiths: Hindus, Buddhists, Jains and followers of the indigenous Tibetan religion of Bon. It is a very symmetrical peak of a distinctive diamond-like shape made of of black rock. They say that anything you have ever wanted to know about yourself can be found in Kailash. I would love to know more about myself! 

Then I started dreaming of meeting His Holiness The 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet… not in Tibet, but in Dharamsala, India, and other nice guys, such as Richard Gere. Feeling happy with my genius plan, I quickly fell back asleep.  

Fast forward 9 months. At the beginning of March 2017, I decided that the only way to turn fifty properly is to embrace and celebrate it. Am I not old enough, wise enough and lived long enough to be a joyful, sensual and in control woman to celebrate my millstone? I definitely am. I am not going to Tibet, or Nepal, or Bhutan (in the past 9 months I’ve also considered Hawaii, London, Alaska and Las Vegas). I will have a party.  

My birthday party “Fifty shades of LS” is in 2 months and it will be epic. I wish I could list all 50 “shades” of me, but you will probably get bored by #18. So here my “top 17” list: 

• I do not feel old (honestly, I do not).
• I have a freedom that comes with age (freedom to be nice).
• I can still rock a dress (despite my geriatric armpits, although they have never been perfect) and wear a bikini at the beach.
• I have a partial denture while I am waiting for my dental implants (actually, for a second surgery).
• I am wise as I can speak from experience (at least I think I am wise).
• I am powerful, driven and focused (most of the time).
• I feel happy every day and even extremely happy some days (this is my interpretation of meditation).
• I don’t have time for any nonsense (although sometimes I fake that I have time for nonsense, but it is basically in one ear and out the other).
• I am old enough to be confident (except for my armpits and jawline).
• I am still young enough to be hilarious (can you be old and hilarious?).
• I celebrate something every week (with wine; I do not think it is a bad habit, so I am sticking with it.)
• My husband and my sons are my best-best-best friends and loyal ones (they always have my back).
• I know who I am (translates I am nice to myself).
• I try to be non-judgmental, non-gossipy and kind (most of the time).
• I think sleep is the best meditation (actually Dalai Lama thinks so).
• I dream small and big dreams (one of them is to visit Tibet).
• I think life is full of beauty and love!

I can continue the list, but I also want to share with you some “wisdoms” I have learned in life so far. So I am going to place a period here (we should control our punctuation from time to time, right?) and work on my next post. LOVE you all!

Found femininity or Emirati engagement part

“I always thought that what Rajima did with those cast-off peels was a metaphor for how she dealt with her arranged marriage. She transformed those peels, with palm sugar for sweetness and tamarind for tang, into something precious.”

Padma Lakshmi, Love, Loss, and What We Ate: A Memoir

On my third day in Dubai, I discovered that I am not quite in touch with my femininity. I saw the lack of femininity in everything I did: the way I greeted unknown people and talked to men, the way I walked and drove. I saw it even in my lingerie: boring colours and shapes. I lacked grace.

I also realized that women are the most beautiful creatures on the earth. They are a gift to everybody. Women can be fully giving and gently surrendering. Their core is LOVE.

As a North American woman, I bring out my femininity only for the occasion, but women in Dubai are feminine all the time. Femininity makes them beautiful, loving and graceful. And local Emirati women are a quintessence of femininity.

On my seventh day in Dubai, I was very lucky to attend an Emirati engagement party.
Emirati engagements and weddings may vary greatly within the different emirates and tribes, but they all have separate ceremonies for men and women.

A traditional Emirati wedding involved a number of rituals and ceremonies with proper etiquette and protocol. The engagement is the initial step. Actually, the initial step is for the women of the families to meet face to face with the bride-to-be. Once everything is in order amongst the women, it is time for the men of the families to gather and witness the formal request for the bride-to-be’s hand. The patriarchs of the families then discuss details of the essential dowry and other formalities.

In addition to the dowry, the groom's family also presents gifts for the bride. The gifts are set up in an elaborate box and displayed for the guests at the engagement party. The box consists of fine pieces of jewelry, ouds, perfumes, fabrics and clothes and is usually delivered to the bride's house on Wednesday. Then a big celebration takes place separately for the bride and her guests and the groom and his guests.

My best friend Gulnara, who has been living in Dubai for the last five years, was invited to her Emirati friend’s engagement party. The invitation was kindly extended to me and two other friends. When we arrived at the bride’s house, I was surprised to see a big property with several villas (there are 12 children in the bride’s family) and majilis (private place where guests are received and entertained). When we entered majilis, I was transported to a fairytale world: fine marble floor, Persian gold wall ornaments, humongous comfy couches, magnificent flower arrangements, exotic fragrances, heart touching Arabic music and many-many-many welcoming Emirati women. Some wore their black abayas (traditional loose overgarments) and shaylas (traditional scarves), some opened the front of their abayas and draped them off of their shoulders, few wore burqas (partial metal face mask that is a sign of beauty among older, very traditional women), but most wore glitzy designer dresses and decadent jewelry. Despite the opulent decor and clothes, taking pictures at Emirati engagements and weddings is done only by the professional photographers hired by the family.

We were treated as honoured guests and shown an incredible level of hospitality. I have never kissed so many women at once. Emirati women greet each other by kissing several times on both cheeks or three times on the right cheek. After greeting many family members and friends, we were seated on one of the couches. We were served pre-dinner tea, coffee, juices, and sweets and offered to use different perfumes by Christian Dior, including the famous Oud Ispahan. Then the solemn music started, and the beaming bride proceeded to the main room, smiling happily and pausing for the photographers. She stopped several times to receive congratulations from the guests.

A local dinner was served in vast quantities. I tempted my tastebuds with gahwah (Arabic coffee) and karak chai (strong fragrant and spiced Indian tea), Arabic appetizers, mixed grilled meats, goat meat and Persian rice.

Once the plates were cleared, all the women put back their abayas and shaylas. Soon the ululations (high-pitched celebratory vocal sounds by women) began, which meant that the groom was on his way to meet the bride. He entered majilis alone and was escorted to the bride by his mother and aunt. We all gathered to watch the union of two people and coming together of two families. We listened to an amazing song by the fantastic female singer Fatoma, which was played when we first saw the groom.

We left the party overwhelmed with joy and admiration for Emirati traditions and culture. It was definitely a night to remember and an opportunity to fast track my femininity.

Affair... Dubai

“How can I be reasonable? To me our love was everything and you were my whole life. It is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.”

W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

Cities... Most cities are like men. You arrive, you wander, you observe, and you flirt. You listen, you smell, you taste, and you dream. Then you fall in love, or reject it, or become friends, or have an affair. I cannot love a city. I enjoy the affair: getting fascinated, feeling intoxicated, experiencing infinite emotions while you are together and pleasant sadness when leaving the city. Cities in Kazakhstan and post-Soviet countries are like women. Some are like mothers. They are strong and loving one day, and weak and challenging another. They are full of laughs and tears. They love you unconditionally and teach you life lessons. You cling to them and at the same time you want to run away from them. You love them unconditionally too.

My affair with Dubai was from 1993 to 1999. Dubai was alluring and irresistible. Every time I went back to Alma-Ata, it would pull me back just like an ex-lover.

I first visited Dubai in March 1993 during my “honeymoon”. The trip with my best friend Laura (my husband was not there) began a few days after my wedding. It was a business trip as there was no such thing as honeymoons in Kazakhstan in 1993. I was three months pregnant, excited and we were loaded with cash. Our plan was to buy the electronic goods in tax-free Dubai, bring them back to Alma-Ata and resell them with a profit. There was a demand for consumer goods and cash surplus in hands of the public in Kazakhstan.

Dubai met us with sunshine, happy faces, good roads, abundance of everything and unknown smells from cafes and restaurants. It was my first trip abroad. Our hotel was in Deira, one of the oldest parts of Dubai. Back then, Deira was a prime location for tourists from Kazakhstan and post-Soviet countries as it was home for many souks, markets and shops. We quickly checked into the hotel and decided to visit a beach before a dinner with nice guys (when you are young, you always meet guys) we met on the plane. Laura and I jumped in a taxi and told the driver to take us to any beach. We were ignorant then, not the closed-minded way, but just uniformed. On our first day in Dubai, we thought that all the people there were Arabs and considered Indian people Arabs. The taxi driver took us to the Jumeirah Beach Park, the first public beach park in the residential area of Jumeirah with golden sand, palm trees and green spaces. The warm water of the Arabian (Persian) Gulf was so luring that we didn't pay any attention to people on the beach. We dropped our towels, bags and clothes on the sand and ran into the warm water. When we got out of the water, we noticed few Indian men walking in our direction. They kept their distance from us. Smiling suspiciously, they started taking pictures of each other and used us as a background. There were more men getting around us and taking pictures. They multiplied like flies. Luckily, they were all fully dressed. For a few minutes we almost felt like swimwear models. Then we realized that the situation was getting out of control: we were attracting more and more men. We ignored the fact that our swimwear was wet, quickly dressed and got a taxi back to our hotel. Unfortunately for us, the taxi driver fell in love with Laura in 5 seconds. During the drive he begged to her to go to a photo studio and take a picture with him. Laura politely rejected him. When we got to Deira, the driver didn’t take us directly to our hotel. He was not a man who would take “no” for an answer. The driver decided to drive us around on the streets of Deira till Laura would agree to go to the photo studio with him. When he looped around the same street for the fifth time, annoyed Laura gave up. The taxi stopped in front of the photo studio and they went inside. I refused to leave the taxi and told the driver that I would drive it away if they stayed inside more than 7 minutes. After the photo shoot we got back to the hotel in 2 minutes. It was time for dinner.

The streets in Deira were bustling with shops, cafes, tourists and many-many smiley men from India, Egypt, Sri Lanka, Ethiopia, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Iran and other countries. Every fifth guy was trying to touch us. The streets were too crowded. The guys from Alma-Ata explained us that it was Friday and everybody was off work as Friday is a weekend in many predominantly Muslim countries. That evening we learned that Dubai is very multicultural due to many foreign workers. We spotted few native Emiratis that night. They looked magnificent in their white “kanduras” (men wear) and black “abayas” (women wear). We also learned that the “locals” were a minority in Dubai.

Next morning, we took a taxi and asked a driver to take us to the best beach (not public) in Dubai. The driver took us to the Chicago Beach Hotel, the first resort hotel in Dubai. The Chicago Beach Hotel was demolished in 1997 to make way for the Jumeirah Beach Hotel and the offshore Burj Al Arab. The hotel was far out of town, but it had an exclusive beach, amazing leisure facilities, bars and dining outlets, and excellent service. We were in paradise. After 3 hours on the beach, Laura and I decided to have a late lunch at the beach restaurant. On our way to the change room, we passed a group of young and good looking Americans. One of the guys touched my hand (touching followed us in Dubai). I stopped for a minute to look at him. The guy was handsome and confident. Sun-kissed body, mesmerizing blue eyes, captivating lips and golden-coloured hair. “Hi” he said. “Hello” I replied and quickly walked away despite a sudden desire to learn more about him. Laura and I were placed at a table by the window. The guy was still there smiling at me. My eyes kept flicking at him. No matter how romantic it was, I remembered that I married my amazing husband few days ago and was pregnant. We left the restaurant and the hotel and took a taxi back to not-so-romantic Deira.

I don’t remember his face, but I remember my feelings. They can be best described by a quote from the movie “Changing Lanes”. Please replace “girl” with “boy” and completely ignore the last sentence. Gavin Banek, played by Ben Affleck, said: “It's like you go to the beach. You go down to the water. It's a little cold. You're not sure you want to go in. There's a pretty girl standing next to you. She doesn't want to go in either. She sees you, and you know that if you just asked her name, you would leave with her. Forget your life, whoever you came with, and leave the beach with her. And after that day, you remember. Not every day, every week... she comes back to you. It's the memory of another life you could have had. Today is that girl.”

Dubai seduced us slowly over the next few days: meeting new people, visiting new hotels and restaurants, shopping in Bur Dubai and Deira, a trip to Abu Dhabi and many little surprises and pleasures. Magic.

There were many more trips to Dubai and every time I would see it from a different perspective. It never disappointed me, even when I spent 7 hours in the Sharjah jail in 1995. Dubai introduced me to an amazing woman named Victoria in 1994. We became friends immediately. She was caring, adventurous and funny. We had the same sense of humour and passion for a fast-paced life. Dubai amused us day and night and one day I may write my “One Thousand and One Nights of Dubai”.

At the end of 20th century my husband, our son and I moved to Canada. I forgot about Dubai and started an affair with Toronto.

I visited Dubai again in 2004. It was still familiar and caring, but it wasn’t irresistible anymore. I could see its flaws. We didn't excite each other. We both moved on in our lives.

After 12 years, my ex-lover (and my eccentric and funny university friends Gulnara and Aizhan) attracts me again. I will visit Dubai in 4 weeks. The city is posh and powerful now. Will there be a new sophisticated spark between us?!

1992

This story happened in 1992, one year after the USSR suddenly ceased to exist. It was an exciting year. The dissolution of the Soviet Union brought turbulence and freedom, uncertainty and opportunity, vacuum and creativity. Every day brought something new and unknown. It was an avalanche of the unknown: nothing stayed the same and everything changed and evolved. Remember what the Queen of Hearts told Alice in “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass”? She said, “My dear, here we must run as fast as we can, just to stay in place. And if you wish to go anywhere you must run twice as fast as that.” That was our life then.

I am writing the story as I interpreted it 24 years ago. It may be different from how others saw it, however I am writing it with no filters of time.

In the fall of 1992, I lived in Alma-Ata with my soon-to-be husband. Earlier that year my three friends and I created and registered a partnership. We took out a loan at a bank with 20% interest rate and 20% third-party share and started our small business. Small and not-so-small businesses were booming in the time of transition from a centralized government planned economy to a market-based economy. It was easy to make money in the environment of rapidly growing prices and exchange rates.

We worked smart, partied hard, and flew to Moscow to buy clothes and eat at McDonalds.

This story happened on a sunny fall day. I don't remember how the day started, but I remember that I, my friend Laura and our other friend went for dinner to one of the many popular restaurants in Alma-Ata. Our favourite drink then was “Soviet Champagne” (“Sovetskoye Shampanskoye”). It was a generic brand of sparkling wine made from a blend of Aligote and Chardonnay grapes. Sometime during the dinner and between the glasses of champagne we saw two guys few tables away from our table. We knew them pretty well as they were husbands of our university friends who lived in another city. We waved to each other. They sent us a bottle of champagne. We thanked them and continued to enjoy the food and drinks. After the dinner we briefly chatted outside of the restaurant, and they invited us to their hotel to have more champagne and catch up on our lives. Since we didn't have any plans for the rest of the evening and since my soon-to-be husband was in Moscow, we decided to accept their offer. Five of us went to the hotel “Otrat”, a famous place amongst foreign visitors and local spivs (fartsovshchiks).

We spent the first hour at the bar. Then the guys offered us to go to their room so that they could play guitar and we would all sing our favourite songs from the university years. The singing session was a blast, where we were transformed back to the 80s and felt happy and comfortable. Then one of them, the leader, let's call him Kanat, went nuts. He asked everyone except for Laura to leave the room. The other guy and our friend left, but I refused to leave the room without Laura. Kanat locked the room and would not let us out. Laura and I tried to make our way to the door, but Kanat pushed us so hard that I hit a dresser with my head. I guess my brain hit my skull as I saw so many stars. Magical…, almost. It was second time in life when I saw stars. First time it happened when I was bonked on the head while trying to help my friend to get rid of a drunk guy. When the stars disappeared, I remembered that if something had already happened to you twice, it is likely to happen again. Seeing stars is exciting, but not at the expense of my brain. So I decided that next time I see stars, they would be in the sky. Anyway the stars worked their magic and transformed me into a mean and scary person. I told Kanat in my calm deep voice “You. Are. So. Dead! You won't be able to visit Alma-Аta ever in your life.” I then mentioned two popular gang leaders in the city Black Almaz and Red Almaz and how they would come and destroy him. That worked. Kanat let us out, but he didn't say that he was sorry. Outside of his door, Laura and I decided that he should apologize, or we wouldn't be satisfied. We shouted and banged on the door, but Kanat never opened it. He didn't even apologize from behind the door. So we came up with a revenge plan: money (we pay) - person (act on our behalf) - justice (apology from Kanat).

We took a taxi and went to my apartment. Let me tell you more about the apartment buildings in Alma-Ata in the 90s. An apartment building with 5 floors or less didn't have elevators and had multiple entrances. We didn't care about the absence of the elevators, but we cared a lot about the entrances and stairs. They were straight out of horror movies. The stairs were poorly lit; some with lights only on every other floor or with no lights at all. Nobody cared to replace the broken lights. My building was fine, we had lights on each floor and good neighbours. The dark entrances were the scariest. Every time I entered a dark building when visiting some of my friends, I would experience an unavoidable ancestral fear. I would ask God to protect me and run quickly upstairs till I get to the right floor. I also prayed that my friend would open the door really quickly. It had never occurred to me to carry a flashlight, but we probably never had them. The apartment doors were another story. They were made of solid wood covered first by a metal plate and then by an attractive wood veneer. Some apartments had the vault doors. It was an interesting time.

When Laura and I got inside, I found my soon-to-be husband asleep. There were presents and a bottle of champagne that he had brought from Moscow. I tried to wake him up but didn’t succeed. With no man by our side, we decided to take $2,000, some kitchen knives and go back to the hotel and find a Kazakh Robin Hood “Kisa” who would make Kanat apologize to us. I put $1,000 in both of my black over the knee boots. It was a lot of money then and we didn’t want to lose it or accidently expose it. We quickly got back to “Otrat” and asked the security guards if Kisa was at a casino. They told us that he should arrive around midnight. We had almost an hour to wait. I’m not sure why we didn’t go to the bar, but we probably didn’t want to miss Kisa’s arrival. So, we stayed with the security guards and told them our story. We believed that they would feel sorry for us, but they didn’t. One of them called militsiya (soviet term for police) and reported that there were two “night butterflies” (local term for prostitutes) disturbing them and not letting them work. We quickly realized that they were talking about us. I assured Laura that police would take a good care of us, but we should get rid of the knives. We ran to the nearest washroom, but all the stalls were locked. We threw the knives over the doors and returned to the security guards. We were greeted by two police officers who said that we need to go with them to a police station so they can check our identities to make sure that we are not prostitutes. We tried to tell them that first they should take care of Kanat. The police totally ignored us and took us to the station.

Since Laura was more sober, they started collecting information from her. As for me, I started acting weird and claiming my right for one phone call. Not sure if it was too much champagne or the fact that I had hit my head earlier, but my behaviour caused only troubles. The police kindly asked me few times to be quiet. They were ready to let us go as Laura’s dad was a military official and they found him in their system. I couldn't stop talking and they decided that we would benefit from spending few hours in a lock-up cell. There was a drunk guy in the next cell. He faked a heart attack non-stop for over an hour. Laura was exhausted and wanted to sleep on a bench. I didn't let her sleep as I was afraid that she would get lice in her hair. After two hours the police let us go. The morning was new and fresh. We were tired and confused, but happy to be free. We still had $2,000 in my over the knee boots and one kitchen knife in my apartment. We got a taxi and went home.

When I woke up, I told my soon-to-be husband our story. He was not surprised. He called his two friends, and they went to “Otrar” to find Kanat and talk to him. A receptionist informed them that Kanat checked out early morning and left hotel. Laura and I have never seen neither Kanat, nor his friend again. And we have never talked to their wives again. Life was too exciting to care about them.

In August I got sad news from Kazakhstan. Kisa died. After all he was the Robin Hood in our story. Who knows how our story would ended, if he was in “Otrat” that night.

Does alcohol make me fat? August discoveries

August was an amazing month. I learned a lot about myself.

Apparently, I looked like a young lady to my oral surgeon (at least he calls me so) and like a 55-year-old lady to a cashier at Shoppers Drug Mart.

My numerologist told me that I have a high level of consciousness, that in my previous life I was a magician on a demonic planet of Eden type, that I should cook without recipes, and I will be able to heal people in the future. Not sure what to do with this new knowledge, but I consider it as an invitation to grow. After all, I am a great admirer for all whimsical aspects of life.

I also learned that my iron level is super low. When my doctor informed me that my iron level is 8, I told her not to worry about it as I feel pretty energetic, and my hair and nails are fine. She probably wanted to say that I am nuts, but she did not. Instead, she said “The lower normal level is 15 and I would like to bring your level to 50.” I knew that I would not get to 50 with my current diet and agreed to take FeraMax capsules for 30 days. The doctor warned me of the annoying side effects of taking iron supplements, but I decided to ignore her warning with a hope that constipation, darkened stool and nausea would avoid me completely.

In August I also hit a new low or new high by going to work and then partying toothless (by toothless I mean without two upper front teeth). Amazing, right? I lost those teeth in a curling accident at the end of February. In August I was supposed to get implants. When the oral surgeon opened up my gums, he told me that I would get implants in two stages: first, a bone graft and then implants in 4-6 months. He then filled my upper jaw with many small pieces of sterilized human (former human) bone, stitched up my gums and gave me a prescription for antibiotics and Peridex (anti-gingivitis rinse that makes your tongue dark; darkness was following me in August). My gums looked like gums from a horror movie; still do. The next day I went to see my denturist to adjust my dental flipper so it would not squish all those new bone pieces in my gums. The denturist adjusted the flipper and told me that it fits perfectly, but I should take it out when I eat. Somehow, I was not convinced, and I wanted to order him “Cross your heart and swear by your practice that the flipper will not squish my bone graft.” Wishful thinking. That night I slept for 10 hours but woke up with a swollen upper lip. It was so bad that my husband called me Bart Simpson. The next morning my lip got much better, but I was still afraid to put the flipper on. My husband told me to channel Alex Ovechkin and go to work without the flipper. So I did. My colleagues were very supportive and encouraged me to join them for dinner after work. The dinner at Jamaican restaurant turned into drinks at a lovely bar. And few glasses of Pinot Gris turned me into brave and alluring Tooth Fairy. Being silly and illogical sometimes helps us keep an idyllic perspective on the things and life in general. 

When I woke up next morning, I felt 2-3 pounds heavier than the day before. “Does alcohol make me fat?” I asked, but there was no one home to say “No, it doesn't.”

On the last day of August my friend Dina introduced to foot reflexology. My masseur was a young and nice guy and Dina’s masseuse was not young, but nice lady. I was so impressed by the guy that I wanted to book him for a lymph drainage massage. When I asked the salon receptionist to book me with the guy, the receptionist and Dina’s masseuse laughed really hard and told me that it's done only by lady to lady. Dina’s masseuse offered her service and recommended acupressure before the lymph drainage massage. I agreed to her offer but booked my masseur for acupressure. They looked confused but could not resist my offer. I hope I did not remind them Mrs. Robinson from The Graduate. 

Looking 55 at 49, are you kidding me?

Last Thursday on my way home from work I knew that I was coming down with some upper respiratory infection. My usual remedies for a cold are hot tea with lemon and honey, and a bottle of decongestant nasal spray. Since on any given day you may find only Tylenol Extra and a box of bandages in our medicine drawer, I decided to buy the spray at Shoppers Drug Mart.

There was only one person in front of me at the cash register. The person had several items to scan, but it didn't bother me as I got excited for J. Lo’s pregnancy displayed on the nearby magazine covers. The geriatric cashier scanned my points card, then the spray and told me the total amount to pay. Then she looked at me and asked if I would like to get a senior discount. “It’s Thursday and if you are 55-year-old and older, you may get a 20% discount. Are you 55 and older?” I didn't know if I should be offended by her assumption that I am 55 and older or by looking like a person who would lie about her age and make herself a minimum of 6 years older in order to get the discount of $1.90. “No, I am not.” The cashier facial expression told me that she was not that convinced. I didn't want to punch her in the face, but I remembered a mini face lift that I didn't do for $7,500 in 2015.

Looking 55 is great when you are 60, but not 49.