Chris Helmbrecht

Julia

Three months after the move I move in with Julia near Mayakovskaya. Pink lace curtains, a gas cooker from the eighties – none of it matters, I think I’ve found the woman of my dreams. Then her birthday comes and I learn how Russian parties work: a restaurant for a thousand euros, presents worth two to three hundred. That evening I’m still thinking I want to marry her. The next morning she picks a fight over nothing. From then on it goes downhill – all the way to the sentence that says everything: in Russia a man pays for his woman.

Leaving the Island

Six months later Julia is standing at Tenerife airport – and I realise I don’t actually know this woman at all. One week of glass walls, sea views and terrace, then the tears come at the gate. Afterwards I stand alone at Medano beach and watch her plane go. New York or Moscow? When the landlord calls in September, I answer without thinking. At the beginning of October I leave the island at 30 degrees, with 180 kilos of excess baggage and a snowboard going down the belt.

At the Garage Club

Krysha, the Russian roof: do business here and you pay the mafia or the FSB. A night at the Garage Club between mafia daughters and Bolshoi ballerinas.

Victor and Victoria

Victor explains Moscow to me: if you want to do business, you come here – timber from the forest, diamonds from the Far East, it all runs through this city. Out in the country people earn 200 euros a month; here it’s one to three thousand. In the evening two women are at the door, fur coats off, high heels out of the handbag. Victor talks about his girlfriend as if she weren’t in the room – she doesn’t speak English, after all. Meanwhile I’m on the couch with a gynaecologist who earns 200 euros and does abortions on the side. And later, in the kitchen, I learn who’s underestimating whom.

The First Time

Five days in Moscow and I already want out. Nobody smiles, the managers serve arrogance with the coffee, and every interview ends the same way: without Russian we can’t use you. Victor sees it differently. Every evening he drags me through the best restaurants in town, closes the deal with girls in three minutes flat and introduces me as a professional surfer. Then he slips the bouncer a thousand roubles and walks me into the Shambala – private party, Bentleys on the pavement, nobody inside older than nineteen, free drinks paid for by daddy. And above us, a dance floor made of glass.

Arrival

Victor picks me up from the airport. “Welcome to Moscow, the city of sin,” he says. For two hours, we drive through bleak suburbs full of concrete blocks. The closer we get to the center, the nicer the buildings, the flashier the cars—Ladas alongside luxury vehicles with flashing lights. When we hit traffic, our driver veers onto the sidewalk. A woman with a stroller jumps aside. I’m shocked. Victor just shrugs: “Time is money.” Welcome to a world that plays by its own rules.

A Woman of Class

Berlin, 2008: Anika, seemingly the perfect woman, moves into my friend’s flatshare. A doctor, pilot, wealthy, and charming – she impresses everyone. Yet, cracks in her story begin to show: alleged trips to New York that never happen, unpaid rent, and a web of inconsistencies. As her network of friends and acquaintances unravels, it becomes clear that Anika isn’t who she claims to be. In the end, one question remains: Who was she really?

Back to New York

After years in Moscow, I return to New York, once my home, now a city that feels foreign. The Upper East Side, with its wealth and coldness, and the East Village, once wild and untamed, now tamed by yuppies—nothing is as it was. In conversations with a taxi driver, cultural bridges between Christianity and Islam emerge, while the city envelops me with memories of parties, encounters, and a different version of myself. New York remains a challenge: hard, loud, fascinating—a place you love and yet question.

Hot Salsa Dance in the Metro

Riding the Moscow Metro is often torture – cramped, stuffy, and sometimes an assault on the senses. Especially when a long-legged blonde in a secretary outfit is standing right in front of you. The train rattles, the crowd pushes, and suddenly her derrière is exactly where it shouldn’t be. Between her satin skirt and my jeans, a dance unfolds that promises more than the rush hour allows. As she steps off the train, our eyes meet. Her gentle smile lingers as she vanishes into the crowd – leaving me, despite the heat and stench, with a satisfied grin.

The (Smelly) Sock

Andrey, the manager of one of Russia’s top design studios, would probably rather be a DJ, but that doesn’t pay for his new Mercedes or his bills. During our “Kitchen Sessions,” he’s usually focused at his mixer while we talk about business, parties, and politics. Things get tense when the aggressive neighbor shows up at the door in his underwear. Later, I find a gray, smelly sock under the table that looks oddly familiar. At home, I realize: it was my sock, likely stuck in my pant leg – now thrown out. An embarrassing moment that still brings a smile.

Makeup Marvels

Sometimes it might be better to pay a prostitute who leaves afterward than waking up next to a woman who’s lost her charm from the night before. Her makeup is gone, her butt twice as big without a tight skirt, and her leg hair has left your thighs raw. As you battle your hangover and reality, she moves closer, talking about “us” and “we.” After a goodbye kiss, you swear to be more careful next time. But standing in the street, the midday sun on your face, all you can think is: Where am I? And why did I forget to use the bathroom?

Brothels, Streetwalkers, and Dominatrixes

Sex on the clock for 100 euros? Not my thing. Sex should be about passion and tenderness, without watching the clock. Once, I stumbled drunkenly into a place like that, blew the cost of a 5-star vacation on booze and… well, didn’t even finish. No thanks. Better to steer clear of streetwalkers and brothels altogether. Even the few times I tried it, it was disappointing—from questionable mattresses to monotonous encounters. What remains? The search for variety, for someone who can be a pornstar today and a cuddler tomorrow.

Mafia, Bodyguards, and Cocaine

After a night in Moscow’s nightlife, filled with cocktails, clubs, and a bartender in an SS uniform, I find myself in front of the mirror at 9 a.m. Club Krisha, famous for its selective door policy and mix of creatives and yuppies, offers everything – from exclusive themed nights to worn-out prostitutes living for luxury. Between talks about Russian values and bodyguards politely urging me to leave, one question remains: Who’s consuming whom – me consuming life or life consuming me?

Death

My grandmother and I shared a special bond. When she told me she had cancer, I urged her to fight – but at 82, she was tired. Months later, her condition deteriorated rapidly, and I made it just in time to say goodbye. Ten hours later, she passed away – by her own will, not through suicide, but in peace. Her death taught me the importance of not ignoring death but accepting it as part of life. I wish I had supported her better, but I’m grateful for our final moments together.

Where Does Cheating Begin? The Model.

Where does cheating begin? In the mind, with a kiss, or only with sex? Maybe I’ve already met my dream woman. Stephanie, an Italian, came into my life by chance. After days of intense conversations, glances, and flirting, I was torn: Should I make the first move? I didn’t. Instead, we parted soberly as she got into a taxi—heading back to Rome. That evening, she left a message: “I’ve fallen in love with you!” I heard it, feeling both joy and sadness. Then my girlfriend called.

Foursome (or Threesome)

A wild New York night I’ll never forget: It started with drinks at “Beerland,” where we met a stunning Japanese woman. By 3 a.m., we found ourselves at her apartment after she joked about taking all three of us home. What followed was straight out of a fantasy—or a script for a risqué movie. Walter and I took turns, while Michael watched and eventually dozed off on a kitchen chair. It was surreal, awkward, and unforgettable. The night bonded Walter and me as lifelong friends, and I’m still left marveling at how certain fantasies sometimes, unexpectedly, become reality.

Trage Dich für meine Newsletter ein, um keine neue Story zu verpassen.