Conversations with Peter

A while back I wrote a blog post about visiting a hospice here in Vlad. I wrote specifically about a certain man named Peter, who had spent time in the United States. I go back to the hospice as often as I can, and spend most of my time there chatting with Peter. We talk about many things: Washington state, Russian-American relations, mysteries of science, literature and Russian culture, to name a few. However, my favorite conversations are those about his travels when he was working on cargo ships. 

On my last visit he talked about a trip to North Korea. He didn't exactly remember the year, but he was working on a ship delivering cargo to a port near Pyongyang. The sailors stayed at a sort of "club," which was a small closed town, with hotels, cafes and stores. It even had its own currency that was given to the sailors. "They didn't want us going into the town," Peter said. 

Peter bought a Korean book there with simple phrases and pronunciation for foreigners. He recalled, with humor, how this caused confusion later when he visited South Korea, and was using phrases he learned from this book, which was written with North Korean pronunciation. "My Korean friend told me after lunch that he had decided I wasn't a North Korean spy!" he laughed. 

During their stay, Peter had to go back to Vladivostok to begin University. His ship however, was not returning to Vladivostok, but continuing south. He spoke to his senior officer and it was arranged that he would take the train back to Russia. He was given his ticket, a can of soup, a sausage, a loaf of bread, and was sent on his way. 

On the train he met two men, and though they didn't share a language, they did share food. He said once he offered them some of his food, they quickly ate it all. "They were so poor. I don't think they had ever tasted sausage in their life," he said. "They traded me small, colorful rice cakes. They were not to my taste, but they were enough to fill me." 

He had very interesting observations of what he saw and the people he met. He spoke of the high, sharp mountains, through which the train wound. All the people, he said, had a pin with the face of the dictator on it. The size, color and beauty of the pins determined their position in society. Large, fancy pins were pinned on the chests of the wealthy and important. Small, plain pins belonged to the lower class. Of the towns he passed through, he recalled how young children would run to shooting school, where they spent the day learning how to shoot various guns. 

He eventually arrived back in Russia and started his studies. With his degree in electrical engineering he continued to work on ships, traveling to more foreign countries. The count is at 15. However, his favorite place in all his travels is Washington state, USA. The place that just so happens to be my home.