Lost in Russia
I arrived in Russia under odd circumstances, which already feels like the correct way to arrive in Russia.
It was during COVID. I was a student living in Belgium with just enough money to survive the holidays and maybe make it back home. Due to travel restrictions, I could only fly to the US from outside the EU, which meant I had to spend two weeks somewhere that wasn’t Europe.
In Canada, I had made friends from Russia, and I had always dreamed about visiting. More than that, I was thirsty for adventure, and Russia stared back at me like a cold beer after a long run.
Arriving in Russia was… complicated.
I’m from a small country, and we needed no visa and no COVID test, which confused immigration officers so much they had to confirm it with multiple staff members. They didn’t speak English. I didn’t speak Russian. My phone became my sole diplomat, lawyer, and emotional support system.
At some point, they decided my name was a problem.
They didn’t understand Manuel, and my surname, Lorenzo y Losada, caused even more confusion. So they gave me a Russian name instead: “Y Losada”, literally just the letter Y as my name and Losada as a surname.
How cool is that?
The guys at the hostel absolutely lost it laughing when they heard.
Moscow was overwhelming in the best way.
Impressive. Monumental. Huge. I stepped outside and fell in love every five minutes. I knew instantly that I was in the right place for a two-week adventure.
That’s when I decided to move deeper into Russia.
The plan: travel from Moscow to Saint Petersburg by overnight train. I romanticized it heavily. I convinced myself that writers like Dostoevsky and Pushkin must have taken the same route, and that by doing so, I was somehow absorbing literary genius through proximity.
(This did not happen.)
Buying the ticket online didn’t work, all my credit cards were rejected. So I gathered my courage and went to the station in person.
Now, Russians are many wonderful things.
Cordial is not always one of them.
I spent 40 minutes preparing a translated message on my phone. I sent screenshots to a Russian friend. She confirmed it was correct. When it was finally my turn, I looked the employee in the eye, pointed at my phone, and smiled confidently.
I have no idea what happened next.
Suddenly, I was being yelled at. Loudly. Intensely. People behind me started making hand gestures that clearly meant “Move. Now.”
I had failed the interaction.
In the end, my Russian friend bought the ticket for me, and I paid her back in cash a few days later.
Quest failed successfully.
There weren’t many hostels available, so I booked a guest house.
The catch? It was inside an old Soviet housing complex.
Easy to book.
Very hard to find.
On my way there, while crossing bridges and marveling at the city, a woman approached me. She looked to be in her 40s, wearing a long overcoat, and was surprisingly pretty. She asked if I was a tourist. I said yes.
She moved to the corner of the bridge, turned her back to me, and signaled for me to come closer.
Curiosity won.
As I approached, she whispered over her shoulder that she would show me something I could only see in Russia.
She opened her coat.
Inside, she was holding a baby bear.
I froze.
She told me that for 500 rubles, I could pet it and take pictures. For more money, she could show me other animals. Although I was extremely curious and very adventurous, I politely declined, slightly afraid of being kidnapped (or adopted by bears).
Finding the guest house took hours.
I rang the doorbell. Nothing.
I called the number. Someone screamed in Russian.
In the middle of the courtyard, I spotted a man drinking vodka straight from the bottle while walking his dog. I translated my problem on my phone and showed it to him.
He gestured for me to follow.
Perhaps this drunk angel knows the way, I thought.
He led me into one of the buildings, down a floor, and knocked on a door. I was fully prepared to run.
Another drunk man appeared, presumably the handyman. They pointed at me. They argued. They screamed. They pushed each other.
Then the handyman slapped the man who was helping me and went back inside his apartment.
The vodka bottle never fell.
At that point, I decided to abort the quest.
I walked a few blocks to an English institute, knocked on the door, and asked for help. They called the number, explained everything, and gave me proper instructions. A very kind boy even walked part of the way with me to make sure I didn’t get lost again.
When I finally arrived, the door opened.
A babushka stood there.
She hugged me.
She kissed me.
She welcomed me home.
She cooked dinner for me, and we had one of the coolest conversations I can imagine, entirely translated through my phone. She told me stories about her life in the Soviet Union, about change, hardship, and resilience.
I still remember her as one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.
Russia is not for beginners.
But if you’re lost long enough, it might just adopt you.