Cure for a Winter Heartbreak

by Sriram Natarajan (India)

I didn't expect to find Russia

“I’ve only seen snow once in my life before,” I admit sheepishly as I gaze out of the double glazed window. Everything outside is rapidly disappearing under a blanket of white. “Winter in the Urals is crazy,” laughs Alex. "First time in Russia?" Yes. “And what brings you to Yekaterinburg?” he asks, pulling out another cigarette from my pack. Well, I thought I needed to find closure for a broken relationship, but now, I’m not so sure. About a month ago, my long-suffering girlfriend had decided to end our painful long-distance relationship – and now here I was, finally in her city, trying to make sense of my loss. I met her yesterday over lunch, I tell him, with help from my translation app. She has moved on, much more than I’d imagined. I wanted a happy goodbye, but in the heat of the moment, knots of unresolved emotions revealed themselves. Clouded judgement. Harsh words. Tears. An awkward hug and an even more awkward good bye, rushed and unresolved. Alex nods understandingly as he makes us a breakfast of porridge and eggs. He lost his job yesterday, but doesn’t want to return to his hometown – nothing but drugs and bar fights over there. He types something into his translation app – “Even the Germans didn’t understand Russian women. That’s why they lost.” We laugh together, and drink some tea – comrades in arms. Closure or not, I’m in Yekaterinburg for the week. At first I felt alone, unmoored – possibly the only foreigner for miles around. And yet, human connections make themselves. The next morning, my Tajik roommate hands me 500 roubles, part of his winnings from betting on local football matches – and then abruptly says goodbye. I’d spent the last two nights discussing everything from Putin to Bollywood with him, but now I’m speechless. I venture out into the city – Google telling me it’s -12˚C. That’s new. But this strange city of white streets and towering edifices reveals itself to be touchingly human – the gracefully dressed woman slipping on the icy pavement, the old man at Dendro Park feeding ducks with an expression straight out of a Soviet film, the careless laugh of my hostel receptionist when she realizes I haven’t understood a word of her rant about missing keys – this humanness is hardly unfamiliar. We could be anywhere, but our fragility and sense of wonder are unchanged. At a café I order a cappuccino and add cinnamon, the way my ex always liked it. I vicariously take her place by the street corner, understanding slowly why she’d decided against leaving this city for an uncertain future with me. The snowflakes drift down with a gentleness that I’ll never get used to, and I feel my broken heart slowly sticking itself back together with icy glue. A chance meeting with a guy named Nikolai outside the café leads to an invitation to his place for a family dinner. We spend the evening making pelmenyi from scratch as his 84-year old grandmother regales us with stories of the Great War. My rudimentary Russian seems hardly a barrier now - we say everything that needs to be said. At the hostel, my lovely Siberian foster-momma Inara teaches me to make blini – Russian pancakes, while Igor downstairs smokes endless cigarettes as he narrates stories of his childhood in Kiev. Everyone I meet seems to have accepted my presence here without a fuss. Travel for me had always been a chance to leap out into the unfamiliar, to escape the confines of the aching everyday – and yet in this unknown landscape I find myself cherishing these familiar, ephemeral moments that tie us all together. I came here to make sense of one broken relationship, and in the process have forged many new ones. On my second last night, I find myself, quite unexpectedly, in a flat filled with Russian pack-kids – learning to flirt in Russian whilst drinking vodka like a gopnik. Artëm the graffiti artist asks me what I think of Yekaterinburg. What do I tell him? I came here to meet a girl, but met her city instead. I came here seeking solace in a single connection, and was treated instead to a loving dose of humanity.