It was the end of a strange trip. My job allows me to arrange such trips. What is my job? Online sport broadcasting: soccer, ice-hockey, volleyball etc. Often I find myself in God-forsaken places, away from tourist ant sugar trails, where I probably would never have come to.
This trip was strange, but I could not even imagine what a mystical ending it was preparing for me.
It started in Barcelona, at a flea market, where I bought a wooden figure: an old man - white beard, yellow jacket, fishing hat, cigarette in his teeth. As soon as I saw him, I remembered him. This old man came to me in a dreams in my childhood. I recognised him. Only 5 Euros. It stood between old lampshades, battered catechisms from the beginning of the XX century, countless stolen watches, busts of General Franco, obscene comics, and other trinkets. I didn't bargain. Go to my pocket, mate!
Then I moved to the east direction. In those days, there was a national strike in France, and thanks to the protesters (sincere thanks!), the trains were canceled so I had to go from Toulouse to Rodez by bus - with a stop in each precious tiny village.
In the city of Rodez at the foot of the Massif Central I met my toponymic homeland. The inhabitants of Rodez, the capital of the Ruerg, the land where the Celtic Ruthenians lived in ancient times, call themselves "rutenois". This is absolutely in tune with my last name - Rutinov - and I, as soon as the game ended (we won!) ran up to the fans and took a picture with a huge red footcloth "proud to be rutenois" behind me. Then we drank warm wine, and I could almost understand their language. And the next morning, walking in the center, which is located on the top of the mountain, of course, I bought a club scarf: red and yellow, with the silhouette of a dog's face.
Then I had a volleyball match in the city of Sète, which I definitely wanted to attend , because it was the city where Abdellatif Kechiche made his "Mektub". To be honest, I did not manage to plunge into the Tunisian exoticism sung by Kechiche, but I met a funny monumentin the city center on the bank of the canal: Mr. Putin's elongated head with close-set eyes, a duck nose, lips, and a fish on the top. I also found out why the colors of the local volleyball club are blue, lilac, and pink. To do this, I had to take two hundred steps and see how the sky and its clouds are reflected in the water of the Bay.
Then there was the Flixbus, which broke down 2 hours before departure ( it was a deep night ), and if not three romanian philology students - Burebista (I changed her name), Rubabosta (the same story) and Sanda ( this is real one) - I would have stayed overnight in Montpellier and would not have reached Cuneo in time.
Then no one wanted to work at basketball match in Busto Arsizio at Christmas. Italians prefer wine, pasta, ice cream and kissing loved ones, but I'm Russian, we celebrate Christmas according to the Julian calendar and for me it was just a day that I spent in the refreshing walk (4.5 km) from the station to the basketball arena (municipal buses preferred pasta and kisses too) and then back through the seemingly ghost town. The mystical sign of this day was a beautiful girl who twice (yes, that's right, once on the way to volleyball, then three hours later the second time when I was walking back!! she pulled back the curtains and looked at me from the window of a gray stone Villa and immediately drew them back. I mentally named her Elma (there were two elms in front of the house) and went to Milano. Then there was Leipzig; a new year's holiday in Prague; many other interesting things, but now I will tell you about the most mystical event of this journey.
So the trip was coming to the end. I was walking around Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. I have visited all the "must visit" places, eaten indispensable "zeppelins" at a local restaurant, bought souvenirs, made sure that the locals speak fluent Russian, despite the years of independence,
- found out that Lithuanians made up no more than 4% of the Vilnius residents in the 19th century. I just walked around the old centre, waiting for the train to Moscow and then met a strange monument between the houses on one of the narrow old streets: on a modest pedestal there was a head of a Hebrew wise man with a huge beard. The head looked like a bell. German tourists were passing by and I asked them to take a picture of me against the background of this strange monument. In that moment, when they returned me the phone, it rang. It was my father. I must say that I met him when I was 27 years old and then we did not communicate very often, so his call was quite unexpected, I did not answer (roaming is quite expensive), and just wrote in whatsapp that I am not in Russia. And I sent him a pic: me and stone Rabbi.
He replied with lightning speed:
- Take another photo next to him, but not standing by his side, but hug him.
- What for?
- This is the Vilna Gaon, a Saint, teacher, Jewish sage of the 18th century - our paternal ancestor. And you are his direct descendant. Read about him in Wikipedia at least.
I didn't know what to say.
The following tourists took a new picture: I am hugging the monument of Elijah ben Solomon Zalmana, talmudist, halakhist, kabbalist, and the foremost leader of misnagdic (non-hasidic) jewelry of the past few centuries ( as wiki says), and with a wooden figure of an old fisherman looking out of my chest pocket.