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somewhere over the rainbow (and other stories)

  Exactly two years ago I found myself flying through a corner of a rainbow, and landed in Oaxaca, Mexico. It was the last film festival I traveled to, a brutal and sweet experience in the harshest of realities, trying to wrap my arms around the slipperiest industry and failing magnificently. Surrounded by fresh faces and eager eyes I ran from the rooms and into the street time and again, wandering off with the camera in my bag as a companion. I took pictures of a blind man that sang on the same corner every day, of wedding parades, of an old woman waiting to see the dentist.  Literally somewhere over the rainbow, I met the ugliest answers to questions I had been dragging my feet towards for years. Cramming the most delicious food into my mouth, joking at the nightly rooftop cocktail parties, grinning like the Cheshire Cat it was all coming to an end. Actually, it had ended before it even started though - and on the plane back to New York and finally Moscow the bone-crunching undertow
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a familiar betrayal


The snow does come, a familiar betrayal in the middle of the night. The same blank sky outside the windows. The same crows in the trees as last year and the ones before. The same garbage bins, and gritty paths laced with mud and ice. People say winter is beautiful, and I don't want to argue with them. For me, it is the filthiest season. Mud and grime is swabbed across the entire city, sticking to the bottoms of boots, the wet corners of windows.

The Russian winter always wins, until it eventually slinks away sometime in May.

I will simmer great pots of soup. There will be warm smells leaking under our door, of cloves and apples, of dough and crust. The rooms grow dark and I wander them when everyone is asleep, trying to ignore the dim white outside.
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