Yes, hello. This me, Petr. I’m from Russia, St. Petersburg. The most windy and cold city that a man of my stature could live in. I like it here. I have friends, I have a black leather jacket. And there are many attractions here. Like museums and art schools.
Not everyone has been to St. Petersburg, but that is ok. Because after I tell you my story, you don’t need to come here. It will be a pure let down. No fun. Because you don’t know the streets. You don’t know the alleys. You don’t know a piece of meat from a piece of cabbage.
“Okay, drive! Why? What? Where are you going, you dirt bag of a dog!” Sorry for that. I’m driving. The traffic is terrible in St. Petersburg. The streets have been made for horses. Not Skodas and Land Rovers. “Blyat!” This asshole just drove in front of me. “Get out of here! Where is your brain!” Some people should be put to sleep. They are so stupid.
It’s breaking the morning with a correct breakfast that is the key to the best life. I personally eat blinis every morning. I make them with baking soda and aromatic sunflower seed oil. Some people don’t like the oil. But they can go by an Opel. I also add high fat sour cream and strawberry jam, and then I roll it into a nice thick cigar and eat it. The breakfast of tanks and machine guns right there.
To get to work is what I’m doing now. It’s the last five kilometers of my commute. I live in an area called Kolyminskaya. It’s in the east of the City. A standard Russian district with no particulars. Just a replica of thousands similar districts thought the whole former Soviet Union. It’s a bliss, you know! Like a school uniform. Every one got the same. No stress. No peer pressure. Here, everyone lives in similar decrepit, mold-infested buildings. And we are happy. Not because of the buildings. But because other people have it equally bad. That is the ultimate achievement of the communism.
I’m now taking my bag from the car. It’s the bag seat. In Russia, you never want to open the trunk of your car and then leave it unattended. It’s like a candy story for low lives. I park outside. This city was built on swamps and there’s practically no underground parking.
“Hey, Nastya! Wait!” I run after Nastya. She’s a sweet girl. Plump a bit. She must enjoy blinis as well for breakfast. “Where are you going so fast?” She almost did not hold the door open for me.
Nastya: “Petr, sorry! I’m so late. So late. Here, take this pouch.”
She gives me a round pouch, size of an oblong water melon, that is not too heavy. It’s covered in brown paper. I have no idea what could it be. “What is this, Nastya?”
Nastya: “Stockings and leggings. I had them washed. We have a shooting today. Girls need them.”
Of course it’s a brown pouch of women’s socks. How could I not guess that. “Really. What shooting is today? Who is coming in?”
Nastya: “Fedya from Lestrovno. He’s an old friend of mine. He does excellent long lens photos. He has just moved back from Moscow and tries to find gigs in St. Pete.”
Is that so. Who is this Fedya guy? Have they had a fling together? A man with a camera in his hand knows his tricks. Often times the camera man forgets that he is not one a set anymore and instructs the girls he’s dating in the same manner. And the girls rarely object. Go figure. Masculine power. It’s what it’s all about.
“What time do you shoot?”
Nastya: “Right in the morning, at 10:30.”
Practically at the sunset. These creatives sure live by their own schedule.
Chapter 1: Before the beginning, there is a blin