"There is an old photo in the album. We look like the mafia in it. Or just a family. Rains! Slanting rains. Rains! From a distant shore. Rains. Slanting rains. Rains!" Ira and I were sitting at a table, talking heart-to-heart. We were in no hurry. We didn't look at the time. Then I just went up to the cafe owner (who was also the waiter and the entire staff) and introduced myself. A good guy. And I thought that I don't recognize myself. I never do that back home. When I am in Russia, I love it—my country. But periodically I criticize it. Because there is still more than enough stupidity, nastiness, and injustice there. But when I am abroad, I just love my country. With a pure love. I am proud of my country. I am a child of my country. Being abroad helps us understand and better appreciate the good things we have that we don't notice in everyday life. And take away the opportunity to feel that—then you start to value it. "Like what, for example?" you might ask. I don't know, even something as banal as... pelmeni! Or buckwheat—here, and in many other countries, people basically don't know what it is. Whereas I know many Russians who adore both. Or a Russian banya with a snowdrift in front of it (or a pond with spring water). Or just the vast expanses—as wide as our soul—no matter how much you travel through them. It seems like just recently I had university and a life that started shortly before studying there. Then there was various "afters." And then... (long and amorphous ellipses), until I left. Now I am in South Africa. I continue to find Russians. I met Nick—a guy from our embassy, we even hung out together on Saturday—we went to the town of Paarl, to the Afrikaans Language Monument. And I met, obviously, Liza. Liza is a nice girl. I am trying to get a job as a photographer. Today I did a trial photoshoot. Ahead lies work in Photoshop. And honestly, living in Chelyabinsk, I often remembered the words of the song above. "I beg you: do not leave, my beloved! I beg you: come back, my beloved! I beg you!"