The whirlwind. The bull in a china shop. The non-stop chatter, the question after question, the endless phone calls. The almost impenetrable accent. The incessant need for instant gratification. The clothes, the books and papers, the light-speed topic-by-topic change, delivered breathlessly in the ceaseless, life-and-death sounding monologue.
He sucks the air out of any room, all six feet-plus of my dear friend, whom I call "The Mad White Russian," one among the litany of phrases and names I use to describe him.
Also: The generosity, the bottles of champagne, that big ole romantic heart, the sensuous love of art and antiquity, the sweetness, the intellect, the passion and curiosity, the friendship we've shared over the years.
I adore him in segments, or intervals: The various visits we have shared together, from New York, to San Francisco. to Paris. More time than that, and I would explode - or pass out.
I expect that after the last three days, a visit to Moscow will feature at some point in my future. And Surfer Girl's too. You see, he brought a friend, and I am not kidding, the fellow is a sausage magnate. Writing those two words, even if they describe one of his actual businesses, makes me chuckle. He also owns Muscovite restaurants and a bookstore chain (!). All that and he seems to be a genuinely good guy. Yes, I sensed a little energy between Surfer Girl and him, sausages notwithstanding.
The Russians have threatened to return to the city - for a more substantial stay. Right on, I say. And maybe we'll all be together for a week in the East End this summer. We'll see how and what may unfold.
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