My days of solitude ended when the women I was going on pilgrimage with finally arrived. A crowd of thirty Slavic women in long skirts caused great curiosity in Nepal. I’m sure we appear in more than one photo somewhere deep in Nepali Facebook. We had come on pilgrimage, of course—but what women could do without shopping?
We split into small groups and began wandering through the shops of Thamel, Kathmandu’s tourist center. My group consisted of three Tanyas (including me) and one Mila. Tanya from Italy really wanted to buy wide-cut black pants. She had found a model she liked, but her size wasn’t available. The seller didn’t hesitate and said in broken English, “We’ll bring your size, give me five minutes.” I translated.
“Well, five minutes is fine,” Tanya agreed.
At that moment, we didn’t yet know how “five minutes” are measured in Nepal.
We continued exploring the shop. I managed to try on three pairs of pants and a skirt. Tanya’s pants still hadn’t appeared.
“Tanya, ask him when the pants will be ready,” someone said.
I translated.
“He says, another five minutes.”
“This is some kind of scam!” Tanya said. “Tell him that if the pants don’t arrive in the next five minutes, I’m leaving and buying a whole suitcase of clothes in another shop.”
“I’m not translating that, Tanya,” I said. “Mila and I will go look for water for now. You wait here.”
Tanya stayed behind, sadly. Communication with the seller was possible only through gestures. There was still plenty of untried clothing in the shop… Nepali minutes dripped slowly.
Mila and I went to look for water. Finding water turned out not to be so easy—you had to buy a sealed bottle. Gradually, we reached my first hotel, where I was sure water would definitely be available. They were happy to see me and gladly gave me water for free. I had just started showing Mila my favorite little garden with hibiscus and monsteras when, out of nowhere, a pale man lunged at us with the enthusiasm of a tourist who had just found password-free Wi-Fi:
“Oh, girls, you’re Russian! Can I meet you? Give me your phone number!”
It was completely unexpected and very out of place in my oasis. I was prepared for spiritual trials—but not of this kind. Mila and I waved him off like an annoying fly. But he didn’t give up:
“Don’t you recognize me? I’m a famous Russian actor.”
“And what’s your name, dear? And which films have you been in?” I asked, laughing.
“Alexander A.” he said proudly (as if that name should knock me off my feet), and mentioned one TV series.
The Russian Brad Pitt of Nepal was glowing with happiness.
“Alexander, good luck to you! But we really can’t get to know you or spend another minute here—we must go rescue our friends from materialistic captivity,” I said, and Mila and I hurried away, laughing. Halfway there, Alexander finally fell behind—not easy being an unrecognized star.
Mila and I returned to the shop. The Tanyas were already sitting there drinking masala chai. For Nepalis, masala chai is the natural continuation of any interaction. Sweet, aromatic—it smooths out all rough edges. Somewhere it’s wine, somewhere vodka—here it’s masala chai.
Those five minutes had already passed about twenty times, and the pants were still nowhere to be seen.
“Tanya, wait another hour and they’ll finish sewing them,” I remarked sarcastically.
No one laughed. Everyone was tired of sitting in the shop. Communication continued in broken English and gestures.
And then—a miracle. Tanya’s husband called her. She answered and started talking to him in Italian.
“Ciao, mi amor.”
After a few phrases, the seller jumped up with a radiant face and exclaimed in Italian, “You’re from Italy! I lived there for a long time—in Naples!” What followed was an untranslatable exchange in a local dialect—his Italian was flawless. Everyone collapsed with laughter. For an hour she could not find a way to communicate with him, and it turned out to be so easy.
“Well, Tanya,” I laughed, “now you can tell him everything you wanted—yourself, in Italian.”
Life is amazing. Who would have thought we’d meet an Italian-speaking shopkeeper in Nepal?
Suddenly, the pants arrived. We bought them and spilled out of the shop together, laughing. Around the corner, another six of “our” women appeared. We excitedly exchanged impressions of our purchases.
“Oh! Such a great little shop!” someone said, pointing to the store we had just left, and the group headed straight for it.
“Nooo! Don’t go in there—it’s a black temporal hole! You go in for pants and come out five years later, already gray-haired!” I shouted after them, but they didn’t hear me.
Oh well. I warned the women that a very persistent Russian actor was wandering around the neighborhood. It turned out he was already well known in our narrow circle. I said goodbye to Thamel and went off to catch a taxi.
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