The ‘Beautiful’ Port City of Gray and Dark-Gray Hues

Still Day 1, Thurs, 7/23

The ‘Beautiful’ Port City of Gray and Dark-Gray Hues

Vladivostok, Russia.

The flight lasted just above two hours, which is also the time difference between Vladivostok and Korea. Waiting in the Customs line lasted almost as long, for there were just three lines for everyone on the plane. Thank God for iPods.

Before I go on, I just want to say that Russians are ginormous and intimidating and could likely kill things by just looking at it. Maybe it’s the sudden shift in cultural perspective that makes me think this way, because Korean are so short and skinny. Moving on.

After the ridiculously long wait in line, I claimed my bag and followed everyone else. The exit to the outside was nothing like any exit I’d ever seen; rather than two huge automatic glass doors revealing a wide swath of people waiting in a semi-circle to greet the arrivers, there stood a single rusty door. So again everyone had to get in single-file line. By the time I stepped out the door, three of the biggest men in the world surrounded me, the width of their very heads blocking out nearly all sunlight. One of them smiled, exposing an entire top row of gold teeth, while another asked, “Taxi?” Before I could answer, the third crazy man tried to grab my bag, assuming that I’d allowed him to carry it to the taxi for me. I swallowed and shook my head; I needed to get to the train station by taxi but the driver was supposed to be carrying a sign had my name written on it. Enter a fourth Russian, much shorter but just as facially intimidating. He blurted, “Reuben,” and pointed to his sign that read “KIM ROBIN.” I nodded, and he shooed away the other three. As mean as he looked, this guy was my lifesaver.

By ‘this guy’ I speak of Anatoly (an-uh-TOLL-ee), also known as The Man. He picked up my guitar and bag and jerked his head, gesturing me to follow him. Despite his size and the weight of my luggage, he walked twice as fast as me, and at one point I thought he was trying to run away with all my stuff. Instead he pointed to a huge, dirty van with two fissures cutting across the front windshield. I bet you no one on this planet would’ve been able to guess that that was a taxi.

He gently placed my bags in the backseat and nodded at me, telling me to get in the front. I opened the door, and to my embarrassment, found myself staring at the wheel. I had completely forgotten that the driver sits on the right in this country. Anatoly stared at me, confused, and I smiled back jokingly. Russian taxi driver’s first impression of 17-year-old Asian boy: Dumb. Ass.

I had learned some elementary Russian before I left Korea (thanks to Freddy Yang and his website), but I quickly found myself flailing my arms about, drawing diagrams on my hand and shouting just to explain simple things like “I’m America” or “17 years old me.” The fact that he didn’t speak a word of English hit me like a truck; I couldn’t find a single English word on street signs or stores either. When I traveled through Europe back in 2005, I was at least able to rely on English to get around and was convinced that everyone in the whole world spoke a bit of it. But in Russia I learned that English is truly not the universal language.

Looking out the window, I noticed that the houses were so torn up that they reminded me of the day I toured North Korea. Roofs were falling apart, walls were packed with cracks and satellite dishes were brick-red from rust. How could people live here?

After about half an hour, I finally began to see gas stations and tall buildings, though they were still pretty dark and grimy from acid rain. We arrived at the train station just after 8PM, and I began to pull out my wallet when Anatoly shook his head implying “not yet,” and got out of the car. He lifted my bags and gestured for me to follow him once again. So this guy was going to escort me all the way to my platform, sweet!

The weather was chilly and the terrible gray sky just decided to drizzle all over my stuff. I worried for my guitar. Along the way Anatoly and I bumped into a handful of homeless people. Unlike Korea, where the beggars usually sit still on the sidewalk with a small basket in front of them, these guys actually wander around and try to block your path, asking you for money. I reached into my pocket but Anatoly shook his head sternly, shooting a vicious look at the beggar. Damn.

He asked for a look at my ticket and found my platform in about ten minutes. I realized that I never would’ve been able to find this place without him, and that scared me. Also during this time a bunch of evil-looking people had been eyeing me. Every other person in the station seemed to be huge and bearded and wearing leather jackets or black hoodies. I can almost remember someone wearing a leather jacket on top of a hoodie. Mommy, I want to go home!

Not. I felt so safe with Anatoly at my side that I could probably take a tour through hell untouched. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to be there forever. By the time we arrived at the platform I paid him $50 for his troubles - the price he and my travel agent agreed on over the phone. Expecting him to abandon me now, I shook his hand and thanked him, “Spaseeba.” He smiled but instead of leaving, sat down next to me on the bench. Why? I thought maybe he wanted to choke some more money out of me. It was 8:15, and my train didn’t depart until 9:52. Was he actually nice enough to keep me company for an hour and a half? Nah, couldn’t be. It was getting pretty cold and seeing the gold band around his finger, I assumed that he had a wife and children to get back to.

“Nyet,” he said, pointing at the floor and then crossing his arms. He was going to stay here and I couldn’t do anything about it. Wow. Instead of a taxi driver, I had hired a personal Russian bodyguard.

After a while he looked at me in my t-shirt and tried to ask me if I was cold. I shrugged, trying to look tough, but I began to shiver soon afterwards. He nodded knowingly and picked up my bags again, heading back to his car where it was nice and cozy. We sat there awkwardly without saying a word for about ten minutes. Then he pointed at my camera and waved his hand at the buildings and streets outside, suggesting that I had more than enough time to go tour around the town. I felt so stupid, wondering at how I hadn’t yet thought of such a good idea. I nodded and began to get out of the car, but he grunted and pulled the door back shut. Rather than letting me walk around in the cold, he was going to drive me around Vladivostok. I pointed at the gas meter, saying that his services were too much and he didn’t have to waste any more fuel on me. He gruffly muttered “Nyet!” and started his car with a kind of passion that made it seem as if his life depended on his showing me around town. Nice. Anatoly was now an all-in-one Russian bodyguard-tour guide.

The parts of town he showed me were pretty gray and listless, but I’m still in his debt and it was a great way to spend an hour. Vladivostok is after all one of Russia’s most famous port cities. Anatoly drove by a small version of the Louvre glass pyramid while a statue of Lenin towered over it on the right. The sight was unusually funny and gave me an impression that there was a hidden message behind this, perhaps that Russia is bigger and better than France? Anatoly didn’t understand why I was smiling to myself, and instead probably confirmed - after the driver’s seat incident - that I was truly mentally challenged. Maybe that’s why he insisted on not leaving me alone at the station.

Lenin

He parked the car at a beach and we got off briefly to get a whiff of the salty air. Unfortunately this beach was the most depressing beach I had ever walked on. Maybe it was the dull weather that had an influence, who knows, but something else I noticed were the deadly Russian warships that lined the horizon. Christ, I thought I’d walked in on some war. Everyone else there were all leather jacket and mean-looking, and the few women I noticed were prostitutes.

Scary Warships

By the time we came back to the station it was just barely 9. It had gotten much colder so I finally admitted it by pulling out my Exeter jacket. From then on Anatoly and I just sat there, watching and waiting. A group of five rowdy gangsters passed by us holding knives, radiating death and destruction for all humanity. They gave me the ‘you’re-lucky-you’re-not-alone-or-else-we’d-tear-your-limbs-apart’ look. Four of them were so ugly I felt bad instead of feeling scared. The one leading the pack walked with a hunch and wore a face that seemed to be incredibly pissed off by default, as if he were constantly chewing on poo.

The train arrived at 9:40 and I gathered my bags. I pulled out a Korean fan adorned with a pair of daffodils my grandmother had hand-painted, and gave it to Anatoly. I then pulled out a scrap of paper and pen and drew a sloppy family tree that included me, my parents and my grandparents, circling my grandmother and explaining that she painted the flowers. “Spaseeba,” he grunted with a smile, and I found an innocent tourist-looking guy to take a picture of us.

The person grabbed my camera and the rest of my bags and booked it and I never saw him again.

Just kidding. He gave it back to me peacefully. As for Anatoly, instead of just watching me safely board the train and leaving, he insisted on literally coming on with me and making sure that I found my bed and settled in for good. Man will I miss him.

Me and Anatoly, "The Man"