So it Happened in Yalta...

She put her seat back, stretched her legs out in front of her, and looked across the isle at her companions, a group of notables from her central-coast community in California, all on their way to the Soviet Union. The lay-over would be in Helsinki, then a connecting flight to Moscow. From there, they would take a four-prop plane to Yalta. She'd not yet to be utterly terrified by that last leg of the journey and was just relaxing into the flight. Engaging her thoughts. She began with truly looking forward to seeing her college friend Alexander, her friend from Yalta. It had nearly been a year since she had either seen or talked with him.

They'd met in college, at UCSB. He not only spoke good English, but was very helpful to her a couple of years before, when they'd met, after both graduating, on her first trip as a group travel agent and board member of the Sister City Association. That time, she'd landed in Yalta just at the end of the Soviet era, in the fall of 1987, and now she was going back.

In that post-Soviet, but yet pre-internet world, communication between Santa Barbara, California and Yalta, U.S.S.R, on the Crimean Peninsula, was difficult. Time zones to consider. Can we use faxes? So, in the end, it was Telex machines. And there was the very expensive long-distance phone call, if you were lucky enough to have a working exchange in those chaotic times.

So there she was, kicking back with a vodka and soda, looking forward to seeing him again. Even though they'd never been lovers, she was fond of him and his quirks. Like his not combing his hair. Like ever. Part of her hoped he'd gotten that figured out. She looked out the window at the cloud cover below. Eventually she dozed off.

When the delegation of Sister City members finally deplaned in Yalta this second time, into an early fall day with clear skies, this twenty-four member group, who were, in effect, her charges for this entire trip, collectively felt a threat of weather. But for herself, having had the experience of the Moscow weather, she was wearing a heavy wool coat with a fur-lined collar, she'd purchased just before leaving the States. An informed anticipation of the cold.

Now, after just these few years, Alexander had become Deputy Mayor of Yalta. He was also to be host to this group, some of Santa Barbara’s most important dignitaries, one might say, or at least one might, from a certain perspective. A collection of sun-soaked eminences, which included the mayor, her husband (who was the district court judge), two city councilmen, with their wives, as well as the head of the local peace organization, and these along with two wealthy real estate developers, and then, not to mention, several other important, rich, and therefore well-traveled, citizens from our fair city, were all his guests. And Linda, the organizer and guide, was grateful to know he was competent, and was that she could rely on him.

Alexander organized the schedule, both official and touristic. She recalled how, a few years previous, she'd spent some time with him, his wife, and their daughter, on a "reciprocal" visit arranged by the Sister City delegation. They had wandered the beaches of Santa Barbara, eating fried food and telling stories of their time at college, while he kept his wife, more or less, abreast of the conversation. Leaving out the parts he'd rather not retell, but that Linda kept bringing up despite his obvious discomfort. It was fun.

But now, there she was.

Having flown out of Santa Barbara, with layover at JFK, finally, twenty-seven hours later, she landed in Moscow with her group. As she noticed the porter had corralled her group's luggage at the gate, she got a twinge of excitement as she realized she'd now be able to call Alexander and tell him she was in Yalta. As a twenty-four-year-old leader of a trip to the Soviet Union, she was feeling rather proud of having had arrived intact, with no incident, but was looking forward to his assistance moving forward.

Now, when he heard her, as she herself would say, admittedly deep, and oft-times breathy Southern-tinged voice on the phone, he was clearly excited for her arrival. There was no doubt he was looking forward to seeing her again. But to her disappointment, he said, "Leenda, so sorry to say I say both hello and goodbye since I today leave on Black Sea cruise with ‘beeznismen’, very important!" Sighing deeply, with a rasp, he went on, "But, maybe perhaps, if you're willing, maybe you come visit the seaport and me as well for a few minutes before leaving."

She said she'd be there at 4p.m., and they bade one another goodbye in a traditional way. After hanging up, she immediately considered how she'd actually get there, as she hurried on to what turned out to be a surprisingly elegant hotel room. She took in the glint of luxurious gold-leaf adornment on the vases and the rich gold-plated candelabra that could light the rooms in 19th century style when she flipped on the light. Then she got herself ready with some haste, and located a taxi, with some difficulty.

Arriving at her destination, a dreary Black Sea seaport under a slate-grey sky, she saw Alexander immediately, framed against the various shades of the reflected grey sky against the sea, and hearing the chaos of feeding seagulls, she approached the man, who was smoking a cigarette in deep conversation with a group of four suited and overcoated men. As soon as he saw her, his serious and lined face brightened. He crushed out his cigarette and hurried over to greet her.

With a kiss on each cheek, he boomed, "Welcome, welcome back, my dear Leenda. Is so good to see you again!" Indeed, his smile lit up a face looking like it was not used for such ebullience, if ever it ever was. "Come, meet my associates”, with a wave of his hands and a nod of his head in their direction. His compatriots looked on with obvious amusement.

He took her arm in a most gentlemanly manner, guiding her towards this recently and only momentarily abandoned group of men. It took some time for Alexander to formally introduce her to the four men, each with their titles and full long names, in both English and Russian. It turned out that two of them she'd met before on a previous trip to Yalta. Both greeted her very cordially in thick Russian-inflected English.

Now the fourth man, to whom they all seemed to defer, was new to her.

He spoke no English, but greeted me quite warmly, his blue eyes sparkling with boyish mischief. His name was Vitaly Serov. He was from Moscow, one of the many new and wealthy young entrepreneurs emerging in Russia. And he was terribly handsome.

Deadly blue eyes, curly light brown hair, broad shoulders, muscular build, strong chin, and full lips. She was dreaming of a kiss already, he being the same height as she, at 5’9".

All bade Alexander an enthusiastic bon voyage for his pending Black Sea voyage. Then the remaining gentlemen invited her to stroll with them to an old elegant Yalta Hotel perched on the seaside's bustling boardwalk for some refreshments.

With enthusiasm for the prospect of more time to get to know this Vitaly, she quickly agreed, becoming, happily, the center of attention to the four men, as they made their way to the hotel along the truly picturesque seafront.

Along the way the group stopped to retrieve one of the men's five-year-old from school, a picture-perfect little blonde sprite named Yelena. Yelena was immediately intrigued by this tall American woman, holding her hand while all made their way on foot to the once imperial and gold-gilded baroque grandeur of the 1907 Hotel Oreanda’s restaurant by the sea. Though somewhat faded by Soviet neglect, it was still an impressive example of czarist Russian architecture.

The men were obviously known there, as a lavish stream of appetizers, or zakuski, immediately arrived on small plates, along with several bottles of water, various sodas, and, of course, the ubiquitous vodka.

Many toasts were made to friendship between Russian and American peoples.

The group was getting ever more lively as the vodka bottles were depleted. They bonded with stories and funny anecdotes, told mostly in English for Linda's benefit, mostly about all that was transpiring in the newly independent states of the former Soviet Union. She found it utterly fascinating, yet she couldn't help but notice that all the while Vitaly, who really did not in fact speak any English, was impishly playing with little Yelena, making her giggle with some regularity. This was making Linda smile despite the seriousness of the conversation around her.

From time to time he looked up from this serious work to interject some wit Russian anecdote with great animation. Uproariousness ensued, but with one of them only occasionally remembering to translate. She was intrigued, but not really confused: translation wasn't necessary to see his obvious effect on the group.

She was, in fact, enjoying whatever he said or did regardless of the language. He was quickly becoming the most charming man she'd ever met, amongst the many men she had visited and gotten to know in her travels around the world. As she took a moment to collect herself deliberately, she noticed the clouds had retreated from the horizon.

As the brilliant red-orange sun made its way behind the tree-covered hills, the gregarious and by now tipsy party departed, dropping off young Yelena and father, then moving on to the imperious Soviet style high-rise Yalta Hotel where she and Vitaly both happened to be staying. More vodka appeared, thus giving rise to many more jovial toasts. Linda however, fearing she might be unable to function the next day if she didn't bid them all goodnight, did so, paying slightly more attention to the handsome and charismatic Vitaly.

With some worry for her official duties, she didn’t sleep very well. Or, perhaps, it was thoughts of the obvious ringleader of this group of men and how she might get to know him better. Restlessly, she passed the night. Tossing, turning, and having dreams with him in the lead role.

Or so one might say.

As morning came she decided to escape her group's full day of sightseeing, leaving them in the good hands of Irina, the Russian guide, who exuded intelligence and sexuality in equal measure. Once the twenty-eight group members were safely out of the way and tooling off on the tour bus, giving "Sister City business" as an excuse, she mustered all her American charm and wit to get the number to his room from the stone-faced desk clerk, a perfect manifestation of communist-era bureaucratic stonewall. Quite an achievement.

Finally triumphant in her goal, she headed up to the 9th floor on a creaky elevator with heart pounding.

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