*
I’m awoken and smothered with a thousand kisses, as usual since we’ve been sleeping in this Soviet flat. I’m terribly jetlagged but got plenty of healthy shut-eye. I try to remember my dreams. It stresses me out when I can’t because these ones seem important.
...
Aysena watches Toy Story 3 in Russian over dubs while I catch up on some business and writing in the kitchen. Marina’s at the table on the phone drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and chatting on the phone.
Blueberry Acai Granola Bar. Hot Tea.
Time for more Moscow adventures with Aysena. We trek out to a Japanese noodle shop for lunch. It’s a sleek beautiful eatery. Having Noodle Soup with Egg and a Salad, Eggplant Tempura, and Berry Juice.
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We pass an old red church. Inside I’m not permitted to take photos. I witness a lady restoring an old painting with a brush. The locals come in to pay their respects and offer their prayers.
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On Old Arbat Street. I stop into a souvenir shop and purchase a few tourist-like things: Moscow magnets and a Matryoshka doll.
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Somehow I lose Aysena. She’s been consistently staying far ahead of me for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because I keep stopping to take pictures. But it’s frustrating because I’ve actually lost her. Where did she go? I pause to watch an old man fiddle with a classical guitar performing some folk tunes. I don’t know how he keeps his fingers warm in this snow. Eventually Ays returns. There’s a certain sourness that starts to brew in her and I’s interaction. I’m having a hard time understanding it.
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Then, to Scriabin’s Memorial Museum, the composer’s actual apartment he lived in for the last three years of his life. We’re given blue elastic bags to cover our muddy shoes. A nice old woman guides us through each room. She talks in Russian but Aysena gratefully translates the tidbits of information. This place houses the original color device invented to accompany Scriabin’s color organ where color and sound are combined to accommodate deaf people in experiencing music. We spend a lot of time in this ancient place.
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*
Afterwards, we end up inside a coffee shop. Our conversation turns sour again real fast. Something is missing on my end. It doesn’t feel right to her. It’s possible it could just be she is sensitive but it’s also possible I could have a problem. Either way we sit there at a table engaging in a heated discussion. We both want to understand each other but it’s hard. I feel a little helpless. She keeps repeating she doesn’t like who I am. Maybe I’m not giving enough affection? I don’t know. I try to explain that being in such a stressful and cold environment, or really just being in a new city in general, requires a lot out of me. That including my jetlag does something to my system. I’m tired. I’m not focused. It’s not everything she imagined our reunion would be. Disappointed is the word she uses. I feel bad. I just need her to be patient with me. It’s only been two days. Black tears stream slowly down her delicate face caused from her mascara. Eventually, we soften up to each other and apologize.
Anything can be so tender so very quick...so fragile.
Meeting up with Michael Budarov at a Mexican restaurant/bar. I didn’t know they existed here. It’s even complete with a Mexican mariachi band. Well, they actually turn out to be Cuban. They come over to our spot at the bar and serenade Aysena. Anyway, Michael, a Muscovite in his early 30’s, is a promoter here in Moscow and he seems to be a big networker of sorts. He helped book a show at a club I’m playing tomorrow. While he puffs on a cigar we talk a lot about the economical differences between Russia and America.
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On the metro I point out the countless couples kissing on the elevator line.
Aysena says, “Of course! This is how Russians survive!”
Ays and I link up with Nurgun, Yana, and Tim (a fellow American musician who teaches English here temporarily. He also gave me an opening spot on a show this Saturday). Yana wants to take us to a restaurant that serves Georgian cuisine. It’s a fancy wooden place with a small pond next to our table. I choose not to be a pescatarian just for this evening. I’m served a specialty Cheese Bread with Egg, Khinkali (meat dumplings), and some kind of Sautéed Beef Dish. Sipping on a hearty sized mug of Beer (Siberian Korona).
...
Then checking out a few prominent spots by the infamous white orthodox church where Pussy Riot gave their rebellious cathedral performance.
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Time to say goodbye. On the metro Aysena reads a local city magazine intently while Yana and I talk around her.
Yana: “Quarreling is unpredictable.”
Aysena is obviously uncomfortable but I’m not sure why.
...
Passing through a long metro corridor we hear the haunting voice of an old lady chanting Scandinavian melodies. The structural reverb creates a beautiful sound.
...
It’s just Ays and I now. Walking back to the apartment. She voices her reaction about Yana almost immediately and it’s not good. At first she was nice but now something about her rubs her the wrong way. I know Yana is harmless but I do remember her being unintentionally careless sometimes with her opinions. Otherwise she has a kind soul. It’s such a bitter conversation that matches the bitter weather around us. It turns against me a little bit but I don’t know how to ease her frustrations with this whole trip that has gone sour so dramatically. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. What else can I say but sorry?
...
Inside the apartment. She quickly gets into bed. I lean over her covered head and try to talk sweetly but I’m bombarded with a harsh reply, “You have more problems than me.”
Me: “I don’t think so.”
Ays: “You are a mama’s boy.”
Me: “Yes I know. My mom raised me.”
Ays: “But you are not real man. I dream of real man.”
Me: “Okay.”
I walk out briskly in attempt to sound offended, which I am. I retreat to the kitchen to reflect and think.
...
At the end of the day it’s just a question of matching. Some people just don’t suit each other. Sometimes a relationship can’t be tweaked or decoded. True bonds come natural. I mentioned earlier to Ays during our little spat at the coffee shop asking if she even saw a future in this. Like, it doesn’t matter to think about it now. We can just enjoy ourselves and have a good time. I’ll go back to America and continue on and she’ll continue her life in Russia.
Ah. That Georgian cuisine did not sit well in my stomach.
Goodnight 3 a.m.
* Images taken by Aysena.
† Images taken by me.
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