Ten years later, as I prepared to walk down Lenin Street once more, I wondered what it would look like now, in the midst of the ruble’s current collapse—or, as Russians called it, the krizis.
Sasha and I strolled from her apartment to Lenin Street, and one of the first stores I saw had a familiar green awning with white and yellow lettering: a SUBVEI SENDVICH shop. This was my first time seeing a Subway in Russia, though I’d seen a couple other American fast-food joints—Burger King and Cinnabon—in Vladivostok. Despite the Great Fromagicide and ongoing official antipathy toward Western food products, American fast food was still available and, judging from the lines, still popular in Russia.
A block or so away, on the other side of the street, a row of old women was selling jars of berries, just as they’d been doing when I first came here 20 years ago. But behind them was another new sight: a sign for something called the “Zaibaikal Business Incubator.” This was part of a new trend I’d been seeing, the rise of business development and education. The day before, across from Chita’s train station, I’d noticed a red banner strung atop one building—the kind of banner that in the Soviet era might have said “Power to the people!” or “Citizens have the right to vacation!”[3] But this one read, “Take a step toward a successful career!”
There were also numerous signs advertising English and Chinese language classes, for everyone from young children to adults. In 1995, practically no one I encountered outside of Moscow and St. Petersburg spoke English. In 2005, a few did—mostly people who were studying for some very specific purpose. Now, many more people seemed to be studying these languages as a matter of course, simply because they were useful to know.
Sasha and I soon found ourselves at the Dom Ofitserov (Officers’ House), a beautifully restored, apricot-colored mansion decorated with a huge banner marking the seventieth anniversary of the end of World War II. I’d always loved this building, with its statues of heroic fighters out front and collection of Soviet tanks in the rear courtyard. Following the lead of a young boy, and with Sasha’s encouragement, I climbed atop a World War II–era IS-2 tank emblazoned with the slogan “For our Soviet Homeland!” while she snapped photos.
The city-block-sized park behind the Officers’ House had been significantly spruced up since I’d last seen it. Large billboards displayed black-and-white photos of old Chita, including images of turn-of-the-century Buddhist monasteries, called datsans.[4] A pair of historic wooden gazebos, long destroyed, had been re-created to their exact original measurements. A new “love park” featured a statue of a courting couple and a bench that sloped whimsically toward the middle, so that two people sitting on it would end up cuddled together. And the crowning glory of the park, the attraction that reminded me of Valery Bukhner, was a new “Kingdom of Shrek and Fiona” amusement park, with a Ferris wheel, miniature train, and a children’s swing ride with seats shaped like watermelons.
Thinking of Bukhner reminded me that I needed to head back out to the Panama City Motel, to see how it was faring. But first, I wanted to track down Pasha. I hadn’t had a good “ten years later” moment since showing up at the lighthouse on my first day in Vladivostok.
The next morning, I walked down to the Drama Theater, where Pasha had worked in 2005. “I have a strange question,” I told the woman at the one open ticket window. “I’m looking for a guy named Pasha, blond hair, who works here.” Incredibly, I’d realized just that morning that I either hadn’t written down, or possibly never knew, Pasha’s last name. She said nothing, so I babbled on. “I’m from America. I met him ten years ago, when I was in Chita,” I told her. “Do you know how I might reach him?”
Now she smiled, ever so slightly. “Short guy?” she asked.
“Yes!” I said.
“He doesn’t work here anymore.” I exhaled with disappointment. “But hold on, I can get his phone number for you.”
She made a call, and as she did so, she fiddled on her computer keyboard. Then she turned the screen to me and mouthed, “Is this him?” The photo was of a jowly, middle-aged man wearing a uniform of some sort, possibly a costume for a play.
“No,” I said. “Not him.” Pasha was young and spry, and this fellow looked like an aged bureaucrat from a nineteenth-century Russian novel. The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise, and the thought suddenly flashed into my head that ten years had passed, so Pasha was middle-aged now. He wasn’t going to look the same as he did in 2005. Hell, I didn’t look the same as in 2005—I’d already been mistaken for a grandmother of teenagers. I peered at the photo again. Yes… I guess… it could be him.
The woman handed me a piece of paper with two numbers, and I thanked her and stepped outside. I dialed them both, but no one answered and there was no way to leave a message. But just knowing that I had a way to reach him put a spring in my step as I walked back to the apartment.
That night, I called again, and this time Pasha picked up. “Hello, Pasha? It’s me, Liza, from America,” I blurted. “Do you remember me?”
He burst out laughing. “Liza! Of course I remember you!” he said. “Are you here in Chita?” I told him I was. “Woooowww, really? You came back? I can’t believe it!” He laughed again. “Vika is right here, she says hi!” I could hear Vika shouting excitedly in the background. We made a plan for me to come to their apartment—the same one David and I had stayed in ten years earlier—the next evening for dinner.
Pasha came outside to greet me wearing a T-shirt and red basketball shorts. “Liza!” he cried, and scooped me into a big hug. He’d gained some weight and was sporting a new mustache, but apart from that he looked pretty much like the Pasha I remembered—that photo I’d seen hadn’t done him any favors. With his arm still around me, he walked me into the building and up to the door of the apartment.
Ten years earlier, the place had been a bit of a mess, with clothes and toys strewn about and cat and dog hair blanketing the floors. The main bedroom had been crammed with a bunk bed, two desks, a foldout sofa, and, oddly, a refrigerator. While I’d truly enjoyed spending time with Pasha and Vika, life in the cramped apartment had been stressful for David and me.[5] As I walked into the apartment now, it looked to be in terrible disrepair, with the wallpaper torn and peeling. But Pasha waved his hand and said, “We’re renovating! Just haven’t quite finished.”
We went into the kitchen, and there was Vika, looking absolutely unchanged since the last time I saw her. Wearing a yellow blouse and bright pink hoodie, and with her dark hair dyed fuchsia on top, she was a riot of color. We hugged, screaming “Vika!” and “Liza!” and then settled in to chat as Pasha started making blini for dinner.
“Liza, you look exactly the same,” Pasha said. He then patted his stomach with one hand. “I’ve gained weight, but it’s for a good cause! I stopped smoking three years ago.” I congratulated him, and he said, “I actually gained a lot more weight, but then I lost some.” That helped to explain the photo I’d seen, where he’d looked so much heavier. He told me he wasn’t drinking as much either, but because I’d brought along a bottle of vodka, tonight would be an exception.
Pasha patiently ladled batter out of a red plastic bowl, spooning it onto a hot cast-iron pan and smoothing it into thin pancakes, while Vika put out plates of cheese, pink sausage, white pork fat, and sliced cucumbers. “So, how is everyone?” I asked. “How’s Edik?” Pasha replied that he had a six-year-old daughter now and was no longer living with them. The friend who’d lived here had moved out too, leaving just Pasha, Vika, and Dasha—an impish, pigtailed girl in 2005 who was now, somehow, seventeen.
3
I saw a banner with this phrase in the resort town of Yalta in 1989. It remains my favorite Soviet slogan of all time.
4
Chita is located just over 30 miles from the Republic of Buryatia, which has a sizeable Buddhist population. More to come about this in chapter 5.
5
In fact, we endured one of the most stressful moments of the 2005 trip here, when David’s laptop got knocked off a wobbly stool—the only free spot he could find to put it on—and refused to boot back up. I was on the brink of panic when David managed to pop the thing open, fiddle around with a tiny screwdriver, and get it working again. “How did you do that?” I asked him. “I have no idea,” he said.