I think Odessa is very mistrustful. Unwittingly, I kept on comparing it with our Caucasian trip for connoisseurs and despite of the breeze, despite of the broad streets, of the port, lilacs and suntan, I still couldn't get enough of the stories. Armenia gave us a lawyer who poured us more and more wine and told his tales. Georgia – a driver, who never ate and never drank, only drove and talked. And a professor of medicine, who sat on a chair next to the radiator, smoked her cigarettes and lead her long Russian narration. In a museum, on a bus stop and then when you get in – stories everywhere, strangers with pockets filled with them, poor and a little sad people, but open and warm. We only had to stop for a while, eye contact or a smile weren't even necessary, no encouragement. Just tell them that you understand Russian.
The Ukrainians don't feel like telling stories. And I know they do have dozens of them. Stories have to be born on those ships, in old tenements and the golden Ukrainian light. But they only asked for our money, they wanted us to take what they offered and get out, always watching us, afraid we might steal or break something, or just disturb a bit too much. So maybe this was not the most fortunate encounter, because I myself don't have money, but I love listening to stories. And I do understand Russian.
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