Victor picks me up at the airport. Outside, it’s gray and overcast, minus fifteen degrees. “Welcome to Moscow, the city of sin,” he greets me. Then we spend the next two full hours in his black SUV, chauffeured by his driver from the suburbs into the city center, past endless rows of concrete apartment blocks and prefab housing units. The closer we get to downtown, the better the buildings look. There’s snow on the streets, but the countless filthy Ladas and Volgas drive like it’s summer and the roads are dry. Here and there, a luxury car cuts through traffic, sometimes with flashing blue lights and bodyguards. It’s a tight squeeze all around—surprising no one crashes. At some point, we’re stuck in traffic. The driver turns to Victor, saying nothing. Victor just nods. Next thing I know, the driver swerves right and takes the sidewalk.
For the next few kilometers, we cruise along the pedestrian path, passing the traffic jam. Occasionally we have to swerve around a traffic light, a lamp post—or pedestrians. The driver honks and curses, even chasing off a woman with a baby stroller. I’m shocked. Victor just shrugs: “Time is money. I’ve got to get back to the office. If we get caught, we pay a little bribe and move on.”
We finally arrive at Victor’s place. He lives in one of the Seven Sisters—those Stalin-era skyscrapers from the 1950s. Victor shows me the apartment, then heads straight back out. “I’ll come pick you up after work,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”
After he leaves, I look out the window. The apartment’s on the ninth floor, and below me lies the city, wrapped in a gray haze of smog and cold. “What a shithole,” I think to myself. “By far the ugliest city I’ve ever seen.”
Still, in this moment, I prefer this bleakness to Tenerife. Anything is better than that sunny retirement paradise where I was still working as a marketing director just a few weeks ago. Everything had been relaxed—until one day, one of my two bosses called me into his office. “Can you come in for a minute?” he said. I had a bad feeling. A few moments later, he delivered the blow:
“I’m sorry, man. You’ve done a great job, but we didn’t land the next round of funding. We have to let you go. You’re just too expensive. Please hand off your projects to the others. After that, you’re free to go.”
I found out I’d still get paid for the next three months. I just nodded and walked out.
Outside, on the huge office terrace, the sun was shining. It was February. Most of Europe was buried in snow, but here the thermometer showed twenty degrees Celsius. I’d been coming out here a lot lately—escaping the cold, dark office for five minutes at a time, soaking up the sun, staring out over the sea. “Well, what the hell,” I thought. It had been pretty clear things wouldn’t last much longer at that company. Still, I hadn’t wanted to give up hope. After nearly six years working in New York, and a horrific ending—September 11—the job in Tenerife had been a welcome change of pace.
But now, that job was gone too. What next?
I had enough savings to survive for a few months. And then those three months of paid salary, car, and apartment. So—start job hunting again and see where things lead. My phone rang. A strange number showed up on the screen: “007…”
Hah. James Bond, I thought. Wonder what country code that is?
“Hey Chris, how are you? It’s Victor—remember me?”
Of course I remembered! Victor was an investment banker originally from Lithuania, and one of my old New York friends. We’d met two years earlier on a ski trip in Vermont. Back in New York, Victor—who had a thing for Italian girls—used to come to the pasta dinners hosted by my then-Italian girlfriend. Since then, we’d only exchanged the occasional pointless email.
“Well,” I said, slightly depressed, “I just lost my job.”
“Come to Moscow,” Victor said without missing a beat. “This is where it’s all happening—the Russian bear is dancing, and the ruble is rolling. Seriously. The economy’s booming, the nightlife is insane, and I’m sure you’ll find a job here. Actually, I was calling to say I was thinking of visiting you. But now? I think you should just come stay with me for a while.”
That sounded like a pretty loud signal from the universe. Ten minutes later, I was on my computer looking up flights. A week after that, I was on a plane: Tenerife – Berlin – Moscow.
And now here I am.
