My sister passed away nearly six years ago. She was my childhood nemesis, who then became my best friend, closest confidante, and co-conspirator when one of us needed an ally. When we were older, we lived a block apart, but not together; we checked on one another daily, but respected each other’s privacy; and while we were so much alike in so many ways, we recognized the differences in our personalities and tastes. And sometimes, because of those differences, we got on each other’s nerves.

We managed to accommodate most of our differences, compromising on which restaurant to choose, or which excursions to schedule on a cruise. But there were two things about which neither of us ever managed to change the other one’s mind: her passion for football, and more specifically the Washington Redskins; and mine for everything and anything to do with Russia, which she called “that place.” And when one of us would begin to talk about her special passion, the other one’s eyes would glaze over in complete and utter boredom.

She did get me to go to a Redskins game once . . . and only once. She was sure that if I got into the spirit of it amid the crowd of crazed fans, I’d feel differently. So I went. And I sat — uncomfortable on the hard seat, freezing cold, unable to follow the action, and bored out of my mind — for three miserable hours. I just don’t like team sports. The hot dogs were pretty good, though.

I never did get her to a Russian ballet or a balalaika concert, but on a Baltic cruise where one of our ports was St. Petersburg, she did appreciate the history of the place. And she enjoyed the fact that I was nearly mugged in a crowded square in broad daylight.

Accommodation.

If my sister were alive today, she would be really pissed, because “that place” is so much in the news again — every day, day after day, for one reason or another. And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed if you’ve been following my blog for a while, those recent events have occupied my mind — and my writing — perhaps a little too much. By now, she would have been telling me to shut the f*** up. And especially yesterday and today.

Why now? Well, because when I clicked on Yahoo’s daily news column yesterday, I found, first, the usual lead article about a certain former U.S. President now under indictment (actually several indictments), and next, ten additional items, all having to do with “that place.” Ten! Holy crap! I just hit the freakin’ mother lode!

All right . . . I’ll try to tone down the excitement now. But, most likely due to my ancestral ties to Russia, everything about the place fascinates me: its history, politics, natural wonders, language, architecture, food, music, literature, art, and the wonderfully complex nature of its people — the whole nine yards. As my Russian language teacher told me decades ago, it’s in my blood. But now, I have no one left who comes close to sharing my passion . . . or would even be willing to listen to my frequent ravings. So I’ve been taking it out on you, good readers, and I thank you for your indulgence.

I will not burden you further today, as I have not yet had time to digest all ten of those articles, or to check other news sources for updates. So I’m off now to do just that, and when I’m done, I’ll make a mental phone call to my sister and imagine hearing her sigh in resignation as I (silently) launch into my summary of today’s events in “that place.”

“Da zavtra” (‘til tomorrow).

Brendochka
8/19/23