A dream meeting in the white nights of Saint Petersburg.
There are encounters that seem improbable, almost impossible, and yet they happen. Daria is one of them.
I don't remember exactly when the first message was, I think it was around 2010 or 2011, when it appeared on my Facebook under the pretext of practicing Spanish. She from St. Petersburg, I from Rosario. Al principio eran palabras torpes, traducciones a medias, pero la curiosidad fue más fuerte.
I was not interested in the Russian language, although that country always caught my attention, like so many others, because of its history and culture (I already make it clear that I am against any war, what is happening with Ukraine and the tensions in the region).
Thus, with few words and without the best translation then, we began to interact, telling each other a little about life, our customs, and each other's culture. I always liked meeting people, and even more so if they were from other countries. This was all just before I left the country for the first time; Curiosity about other places and cultures was already planted.
She told me that, in addition to Spanish, she was studying a career related to Culture. I never quite understood the title, but I know that it was received a few years ago.
Daria is very reserved, first of all. Although she is super given and over time we forged a noticeable trust, at first she was not about talking about her personal life, the little I tell here is what I know I can. At first we talked about mate, typical Russian foods, the freezing weather, some politics, although very high-level.
I was always curious about the Soviet Union; She was born after the fall of the wall and the dissolution, so she did not experience that stage, but she did experience the transition. His family, however, did go through those years. It's crazy to think that he only knew three presidents in his life, while we had five in just a few weeks (see 2001 Crisis in Argentina: the 5 presidents in 11 days).
At that time he was renting an apartment in Saint Petersburg, although he was born in a small town on the outskirts—whose name I cannot remember. His mother, now retired, had been a kind of judge during the previous period, so they had a good time. She had a new partner, with whom she grew up. He didn't talk much about his father; was not present. Those stories that drag silences, of complicated times.
Then he moved to his own apartment, between the city and Peterhof, which I later got to know, he had a guitar and other strange things. His family also had a dacha —a weekend house—, those rural residences so typical in Russia. There they are almost a cultural institution: they serve to escape the city, grow food, enjoy the outdoors. In his case, he used it to rest in the summer or go with friends.
Portrait: Daria is blonde, with curly hair and blue eyes like those of a Siberian husky. High, I would say 1.70. I remember a photo of her childhood that she sent me, dressed as a tsarina; Clearly times had changed.
She is nice and mysterious. As I said at the beginning, it is difficult for him to talk about his private life, perhaps because of his family history, but once he lets loose he has a very particular mischief and irony.
Fan of Natalia Oreiro—“Natasha,” as they call her there—and of a Russian musician called Noize MC, who introduced me and I ended up listening to a lot. She is a free, independent, open-minded woman; nothing to do with the machismo and homophobia that still exist there. I think many young Russians think like her, beyond the current government.
She is also curious about the world like me. He traveled to Türkiye, Georgia, Spain, the Arab Emirates, we always talk about that; He even did the Camino de Santiago with friends. She traveled precisely that week when I met her in person. Yes, I was in Russia.
The good vibes were so great that in 2013, without expecting it, I received an envelope—sent in 2012, but delayed by customs—with a handwritten letter in Spanish and Russian, and a postcard.
He sent it for the holidays. Although Christmas is not celebrated there much, it was a Christmas gesture, also wishing me a happy new year. For me it was a lot. Receiving a letter, something so obsolete, and on top of that from Russia, different if it is in person which is also nice, but the distance adds something, seemed to me to be a sweet gesture, careful in its simplicity and above all a sign of appreciation.
How something as simple as a letter can contain so much feeling. Take the time to write it and send it. The anxiety of waiting. Something solid among the ephemera of instant messaging.
At that time we talked a lot, and it was notable how his Spanish improved. Of course, I Latinized his accent—he liked speaking Latin Spanish better.
We talked about dreams. We wanted to know each other's country. In 2014, again unexpectedly, another package arrived (also stuck in customs): a book in Spanish about Saint Petersburg and another postcard with a personal dedication. That day I wrote to her and promised her that in 2016 I would go visit her. Mine is very optimistic. I arrived two years later, in 2018 (customs delayed me, let's say).
I remember that she participated as a volunteer in the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics. She sent me photos, and of course, they made me want to be there.
The trip.
In 2017 I started planning a big trip through Europe for the following year, 2018. At first it was going to be one month, but it ended up being three (a post will soon recount that great experience). Much of my chronicles come from that trip; I should put them together someday (is there a book coming?).
So, expanding the itinerary, I thought: why not go to Russia and fulfill that promise to Daria? I started talking to him about the possibility; She always has the doors open, although with a certain disbelief. It seemed crazy to him.
At that time, Russia was hosting the 2018 World Cup. The trip was already intense, but that seasoning made it even more special. Daria, who at first was not so enthusiastic about the World Cup, ended up also falling into the soccer networks, encouraging Argentina and Russia, which had a great tournament. The Russians seemed like Latinos, how they celebrated.
The day before my arrival, we were in Athens watching the Argentina-France match. They eliminated us. Tremendous round trip. Luckily, football gives revenge... and what revenge (I heard that three-time champion?).
We arrived in Russia in the middle of a World Cup without Argentina. First Moscow, then St. Petersburg, where Daria lived. She was about to travel to do the Camino de Santiago, but we managed to see each other.
After leaving our things at the hotel, we headed to the “Galería” (Галерея) shopping center, right in the center, near the train station. There she was, doing some shopping. I remember telling him that in Argentina, when we love someone, we give each other a kiss and a hug, no greetings from afar or cold handshakes.
I remember being with my cell phone with a low battery waiting, and when I turned I saw those light blue eyes of this beautiful Russian, like a Siberian Husky, good-natured, with her open arms and a super warm hug, as if yesterday we had been drinking mates, with a smile that erased all distance.
Obviously there were nerves, everything was strange. I, a Rosario native in Russia (well, Messi and Di María were there too), but at that point in the trip everything seemed natural.
We talk until we get tired. We walk through the city. She was my guide and an accomplice, showing me eternal avenues, palaces and hidden bars. His Spanish was almost perfect, but more than the words, the good vibes and connection mattered.
We walked along Nevsky Avenue, that infinite street full of history, a mix of poverty and grandeur, of bridges, museums and bookstores. The American essayist Marshall Berman, in his book “Everything Solid Melts into Air,” included a chapter on the city of Saint Petersburg, pointing out there that Nevsky Avenue was - in practice - the only public space in the city that was not completely dominated by power, first tsarist and then communist, due to the continuous interaction of people of diverse origins and environments forming a microcosm of Russian society, allowing the experience of contrasting and reflecting on the situation in Russia.
At one point we passed through a neighborhood, and Daria told me: “There are bars, music here… and strange things happen.” “Weird how?” I asked. “Strange things,” he replied, smiling. Then I understood: it was an area of cabarets, some with their doors open 24 hours a day.
Further on we arrive at the Hermitage Museum. The afternoon was beginning to fall and the building shone with a golden light, as if the sun refused to leave its columns. Tourists mingled with street artists, and the air had that tone suspended between art and history, between what is real and what can only be felt. I took a photo of him there, with the museum behind: his gaze seemed part of the scene, as if it had been painted centuries ago in one of those rooms.
It was she who told me that the next day admission would be free. He said it with that naturalness of his, like someone sharing a little secret of the universe. And of course, we took advantage of it.
We walked until the white nights began to fall. Finally we arrived at the Gor'kovskaya metro station. She had to continue on her way. I don't remember why I didn't take the subway with her; Maybe I thought it was close to the hotel and I wouldn't get lost. (Spoiler: I missed it).
Antes de despedirla, saqué de la mochila algunos regalos: una guía de Rosario, a package of yerba mate (the only one that arrived intact, although I almost got arrested for that in Moscow), and my Argentina t-shirt. Not just any one: the one from the 2006 World Cup, the one my father had given me, something very personal that was not planned, but due to the context it was warranted.
Some time later he sent me a photo, on a section of the Camino de Santiago, with that shirt on. It moved me.
The farewell was an immense hug, with that mixture of certainty and uncertainty: we didn't know if there would be another opportunity, but we both understood that what we had experienced was enough to be saved. I am left with a nice feeling, that beyond the great distance and how crazy or remote the possibility may seem, we will see each other again.
Today Daria continues traveling. A while ago he was in Amsterdam, Barcelona and Dubai. We always talk to know what the other is up to. The thread is there.
The day before yesterday I spoke to her: she is fine, working hard, saving to travel. He is thinking of traveling next year. Who says, perhaps those promised mates in Argentine lands are getting closer.
For now, this month was her 31st birthday and I give her this chronicle of our shared history, a portrait of that Russian doll that appeared in my life and made it bigger.
“Иногда самые короткие встречи остаются навсегда.”
Inogdá samyye korotkiye vstrechi ostayutsya navsegda.
