How I Broke up and Reunited with the Black Sea

December 1989

We are standing in line at a Moscow airport, waiting to be checked by customs officials. Our flight is in two hours, but we are not sure we are going to make it. The line is moving very slowly, and this is intentional. The customs officers want us to choose between missing a flight and leaving our valuables. Why? Because we are leaving the Soviet Union, and we are leaving for good. We have already lost a lot — our jobs, our friends, our homes, and most importantly, our beliefs, so what person in their right mind would care about a few things of sentimental value like an old watch that was passed from generation to generation in the family? What family? It will be broken forever.

The officers’ plan works. We drop everything at the customs counter and rush to the gates. We can’t afford to miss our flight. We fought so hard to be on that plane! And we make it. We crash into our seats and sigh with relief. We are fleeing the country in hopes of changing our life completely, to a life we know nothing about. And now, let me introduce my family: my husband, his mother, and my two-year-old son, Alex.

The plane takes off, and the cabin, full of people like us, explodes with applause. We are finally free! Little did we know what the road to that freedom would look like. Our first stop of the six-month journey to the US was Vienna. Upon landing there, we became nobodies. We became the property of immigration agencies; our lives depended completely on them. They could deport us for any or no reason. We were placed in a communal apartment where families of five to six people shared the same room, and the only word we heard from the landlord was “stink.” But we didn’t complain. We were on our way to a bright future. I remember my trips to the meat market. We couldn’t afford to buy good meat, so we discovered a place where leftovers from a butcher shop were sold. I remember going through that pitiful pile of meat debris, trying to find something that was worth paying for, when a woman at the counter slapped my hand. “Don’t touch it, dirty swine!”

That was it. I was labeled a second-class citizen, someone people want to avoid, someone who could be accused of stealing food at the market. Who cares that I have always been an honest, law-abiding citizen? I am a thief! I discovered how easily the self-esteem of an immigrant can be ruined and how hard is it to restore. I carried that mentality throughout our six-month journey and brought it to the US.

Luckily for us, in the States, we met great people like the Brenner family — volunteers who helped us feel respected again. I vividly remember the night they met is in the airport. They radiated the positive vibes, the kindness and openness — something I have been longing for a long time. They had two teenage daughters who immediately took Alex under their wing. But let me tell you a little backstory first.

I grew up by the Black Sea, where I would go to bed at night thrilled about my morning diving into its emerald waves, willing to give everything for another chance to be embraced by its mighty power. It was like being with your dream lover: you never know what to expect; he would always surprise you but never disappoint you and never bore you, leaving you wanting more and more. That’s why, when I first came to Louisville after an exhausting twenty-four-hour overseas flight, my only question to a cab driver was, “Where do you swim here?” He looked at me through his rear-view mirror, smiling, and said with a strong foreign accent, “In the bathtub, ma’am.” I thought he was teasing me.

“You have a large river. Don’t you have any beaches?” He looked at me again, but this time he decided not to bother himself with answering. The Brenners looked at me smiling. They knew that there was a surprise waiting for me. We arrived at our apartment complex late at night, so my search for a beach was interrupted for a few hours.

The morning sun brought an answer along with the deepest frustration; a large pool with a noisy crowd was winking at me just outside my balcony: “Did you bring your surfboard?” What? No emerald waves, no iodine smell of seaweed, no baking in the sandy powder under a gentle, Mediterranean-like sun, no breezy romantic evening at beachside restaurants. Oh well, we could travel to Florida when we could afford it. After all, that is not a reason to be frustrated. I had bigger fish to fry. I clenched my teeth and focused on other things in my life — my son, my career, my professional development. I was trying to forget my sea the way you would try to forget your old boyfriend: you don’t want to see anything that would remind you of him, but at the same time you are craving to catch just a glimpse of his life. What is he doing now? How does he look? Does he have a girlfriend?

And sure enough, the opportunity presented itself on one hot day in September. We had been looking for a house for a couple of years by then, and this house was the last one on our list. Exhausted and sweaty, we came out to the patio by the pool. The owner’s family was sitting around the pool, relaxing in their beach lounges. I don’t remember what they looked like. I was mesmerized by the color of the water. It was not just one color. It was a giant jewelry box filled with emeralds, sapphires, amethysts, and ambers threaded on a golden chain of the afternoon sunlight. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I squinted and opened them again. I want this necklace NOW! I want to wear it each and every day regardless of my outfit. Please wrap this house up for me!

Since then, my life has taken a completely new turn. I had met my new lover, who slightly resembled my old one. He was little older, wrinkles crossed his forehead, and his grayish hair had gotten thinner. But his touch is still the same. Once I jump into the water, he embraces me with his strong and gentle hands and carries me through the clouds of crystal splashes, flying with me to the top of the blue mountains, dropping me at the peak only to pick me up again just in time for another flight. I know I am safe in his hands. I turn to him when I am happy and when I am sad, when I need advice or when I am just homesick. Sorry I cheated on you, my dear Black Sea! Will we ever meet again?

September 2012

We are standing in line at JFK airport, waiting to be checked by security personnel. We are flying to Odessa via Istanbul, which will take twelve hours. It seems like an unbearably long trip, as we are flying with our twenty-five-year old son, Alex, whom we promised to show the city where he was born. Alex just recently graduated from university with a degree in International Relations, and he is very skeptical about anything related to the former Soviet Union. He has not heard a single good word about this country from his professors, and he doesn’t understand why his parents couldn’t have waited just a little longer so he would’ve been born in the US. C’mon, folks, do a couple years of waiting really make a difference?

I know that Alex feels proud to be an American. He was three when we came to the US, so he doesn’t remember the old country and his hometown. But he has heard thousands of stories from his grandparents, who were never tired of describing a colorful life in the most cosmopolitan city of the former Soviet Union. We told him about its cultural and historical heritage, about its great architecture. We hoped that perestroyka didn’t destroy that part.

I sit next to him in the plane thinking about the journey we took twenty-three years ago. It was the toughest decision we’ve ever made in our lives, and we did it mainly for him. For him to grow up in a free country, for him to be able to choose what he wants to do with his life instead of being told what he is allowed to do. Nevertheless, I want him to like the city where he was born. To like its wide, shaded boulevards surrounded by old, chestnut trees; to like its friendly, stylish people having their coffee or wine at the crowded terraces of waterside restaurants and — most importantly — to like the Black Sea, the sea I have told him so many stories about. I am nervous. Will Odessa live up to my expectations?

We arrive at Odessa International Airport late in the evening. The building seems smaller than I remember. It was built in the ’70s, and at that time it was proudly called the International Airport. But these days, due to political situation in Ukraine, it serves just a few international destinations, so this name sounds like a joke. Once we enter the building — another surprise. Random dogs are running around, and it seems nobody is bothered by them.

“Oh, great,” Alex says sarcastically, “Random dogs! In the airport!”

Our friends’ son, Sasha, meets us at the gate. In his mid-thirties, he is a successful architect and an avid yachtsman. He drives a Mercedes SUV, and he takes us to his apartment which is at our disposal. It’s bright and contemporary, which tells us that some people have made it in this life despite the turbulent times Ukraine is going through.

We are tired and want to crash into our beds. My plan for tomorrow is simple — a trip to the beach first, and then walking around the city if time permits. But the beach is first.

We wake up to the gentle touch of sunlight coming through the shades. I pull them up and — wow — the fresh breeze from the sea caresses my face and my body. My dear sea, you are here, you are close! I run to another room to wake up Alex. Sinochek (Russian for son), wake up!

He tosses and turns in his bed, grunting something, which tells me that he won’t be up and running for at least the next couple of hours. My husband is glued to his phone, researching something.

“Do you mind if I run to the beach really quick?”

“Okay”, he says without lifting his eyes from the phone.

This is the moment I was waiting for. I jump into my swimming suit, throw on a little sundress, and run outside. The apartment is just a few steps from the beach, which greets me with a golden mountain of hot sand covering my feet almost to the knees. It’s hard to move, but I run. I run to meet my lover, the one I cheated on with my swimming pool but am now reuniting with.

I throw my dress off and jump into the gentle waves of the morning sea. What’s happened? Doesn’t he recognize me? Why is he so cold? Come on, my dear, it’s me! Don’t you recognize my hands, my legs, my breasts? I glide on his emerald waves, and I feel like his hands are touching my skin timidly, but every second they become stronger and stronger. And finally, he embraces me. He carries me through the clouds of crystal splashes, flying with me to the top of the blue mountains, dropping me at the peak only to pick me up again just in time for another flight. I know I am safe in his hands. How could I dare cheat on you, darling? Will you forgive me? I know that I’ll have to leave, but will you remember me? Will we ever meet again?