Anna

I am not here to sell Icewine. I am here to drink in this place called Abkhazia.

It is my second day in Sukhumi, the capital of Abkhazia.  There is no shiny tourist area.  There are few tourists in Sukhumi, unlike the northern towns of Pitsunda and Gagra where Russian tourists still come to enjoy the beaches in dozens when before the war they came in the thousands.  I am walking along a street and peeking into shops.  The cars and busses that go by are all ancient and the people are tired, old, and friendly.  I am peering at them and am self conscious about staring, but I’m fascinated.

In Toronto I would probably have walked right by Anna, sadly, treating her like we treat so many homeless looking folks.   In Sukhumi, things are different, and I smile at everyone.  Anna is sitting on a block of wood.  Her clothes are old and tired and she is probably younger than the 60 years I give her.  She has arranged a small flat box with bunches of cilantro and another herb I don’t recognize. Her belongings, I realize, are  placed in bags on a windowsill behind her.

We make eye contact and I say hello.  Everyone on this street that I have approached has spoken only Russian, or Abkhazian, or perhaps other languages, but certainly no English. I expected that the world would understand a simple ‘hello’ in English and that Anna would nod, and perhaps smile, and I would walk on.

Her face brightens and she says, “You speak English!”  I’m sure my smile got wider and and I replied, “Yes” I stuck out my hand.  “My name is Phil and I’m from Canada”.

“I am Anna”

Over the next few minutes I felt my discomfort in looking down at this affable lady who chatted so intimately dissipate.   Anna, she told me studied English and Russian literature in university in Moscow and then taught it for some years, “but look at me now!”   A lady walked by between us and stopped to ask about the cilantro.  They exchanged a few words and the lady abruptly walked off.  Anna surprised me with, “I don’t like those people”.  Then her English deteriorated as the emotion rose in her voice.  I think that she told me that “those people come down here and move around like they own the place.”

“They produce nothing, and contribute nothing.  They are terrible.”  I wanted to continue talking with her but that initial connection was broken by her emotional explanation.  I wanted to ask her if I could buy her coffee, or lunch and learn from her, but I also feared that it would be taken as charity and I might become one of ‘those people’ in her next story.   I also wanted to take her picture but I felt that I had already delved into her private life enough.   The picture was not important.

About a half hour later I came back and the block of wood was sitting empty on the sidewalk and Anna’s bags were still on the window sill, but Anna was gone.

I never found out who “they” were.