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“Tatiana, I hope in another forty years you meet another David from Harvard.”
“Yes!”
The weather has taken a turn as we pull into Ishim. The wind is whipping around in
all directions and heavy snow is falling. Tatiana, Oleg, Sergei, and I climb down the metal
stairs into this mess, feeling as if we are skydivers who just stepped out of a plane into a
powerful jet stream. “Good-bye!” I yell, waving to the lovely couple as they march off into
the meteorological abyss.
Sergei and I find a rusty red car with a taxi light taped on top and a man sitting inside.
We open the door and dive in. The driver revs his engine, spins his tires a bit, and we're off,
at high speed. The driver does not seem to be respecting the weather conditions. In fact,
everywhere I look, people seem unfazed by this blizzard. At home, in Washington or New
York—even in winter-proof cities like Boston and Chicago—I swear conditions like this
would have schools closed, drivers warned to stay off the roads, power down, and people
in an all-out panic about whether they bought enough bread, milk, and toilet paper. There
are probably three feet on the ground already in Ishim and more snow is piling up.
Totally routine.
Sergei turns back to me from the front passenger seat.
“David, what's the name of the hotel you found?”
I look down at my notepad. “Hotel Tranquility.”
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