Beginning (2009)

My flight landed into thick air filled with pollution. Beijing, 5 a.m.

As I came out to meet Stas, I was already overwhelmed by a stream of people coming from everywhere. Through the crowd I recognized him — hair that needed a cut already a few months ago, a bit chubby, tall enough to stand slightly above the crowds of Chinese families waiting for relatives.

We hugged. We were never very close, but me arriving to live with him in China created a fast bond. From that morning, I had no one else in this city but him.

I followed him as if in a dream, through people, tourists, sleepless night still inside my eyes. In the background something was being announced in two languages. Ahead of us was a huge slow-moving line of people, all waiting to get a cab. The yellow-and-blue taxis arrived and left almost mechanically: take luggage, ask one question, drive into the grey air.

When it was our turn, we repeated the same actions: greeting the driver, putting my suitcase in the trunk, getting in, saying the address.

The driver was cheerful, but the damp, sour smell suggested he might have been sleeping in the cab for days. The driver’s seat was separated by a plastic barrier with a small slot for money.

I tried to settle into the back seat, fighting sleep, watching the endless grey highways and forests of concrete buildings roll by.

“请停在这里,” Stas said — Please stop here.

I’d known Stas for many years, but we were never close friends. Our parents knew each other, and when the decision was made that I would go to China, they all encouraged me to stay with him. He had already been in Beijing for a few years, studying at a language university — international relations — and was popular among Chinese girls.

We stopped just before the entrance to the compound. There was a small convenience store where Stas went to buy water, and I followed.

It was early morning, the man behind the counter still half-asleep with his head on the table. The store was small, just a few aisles. Behind one of them, a mattress lay on the floor with blankets — someone had been sleeping there.

I looked around, searching for my childhood treats: Chocopie and Milkis. Growing up in the Russian Far East — historically Chinese land — these Korean snacks were everywhere. Later, in Ukraine, I couldn’t find them. Holding them again here, on my first day as an independent adult, felt like stepping into my own new life but protected by the past.

Stas picked up a bottle of water, brought it to the cashier, took the sweets from my hands, and added them on the counter.

He looked at the cashier and said, “wǒ hái yào nàgè.”

My eyes opened wide; I looked at him half laughing.

He winked. “You’re not the first one to jump at that word. It just means ‘that one.’” He took the cigarettes the cashier slid out from under the glass.

I grinned, suddenly aware that this was just the beginning — that I’d have to learn this funny language if I wanted to survive here. There was no way back.

He paid, and we walked to the building, passing more tall apartment blocks that all looked identical — pale concrete with round windows sticking out like half bubbles.

Inside the lobby, we took the elevator. Stas pressed the button for 27. I scanned the panel, noticing the missing numbers: 4, 14, 24.

The apartment was big and bright. From the living room I could see the curved window I’d noticed from outside. The space was minimally furnished with IKEA basics: a thin, rectangular kitchen, a king bed in Stas’s room, a small bed and desk in mine.

I set down my bags and went straight to the window. The sun had climbed higher and glowed deep red, its brightness muted by the pollution — only the heat and color left. I stood at the very center of the curve so my peripheral vision no longer caught the apartment walls. It felt like I was floating above the city, suspended in grey air.

From the 27th floor — really the 23rd — I could see the 4th Ring Road below, cars flowing endlessly, a bridge crossing it, and beyond that a huge park stretching left and right. In the distance, a forest of buildings lined the horizon.

I felt very small in that window. Small the way my life suddenly became — shrunk to the suitcase I brought and to myself. I had no history here, no friends, no knowledge. Everything little I had, I left in Ukraine. Jobs, friends, even the only languages I knew — Ukrainian and Russian — were not much use in starting a new life.

I needed to start over.

New language, new friends. I felt like I was floating in that polluted air — physically, mentally — looking into a hazy future.

I couldn’t sleep. I unwrapped the red package of Chocopie, bit into the soft chocolate-covered cookie with marshmallow, and washed it down with overly sweet Milkis. A warm flash of childhood passed through me. The sugar and familiar taste gave me a strange calm, a momentary grounding.

Stas told me the apartment was chosen so we could share it while I went to Chinese classes nearby and he continued at his university not far away. The neighborhood, Wangjing, was known for its Korean community and its growing art scene. A major art university was very close, and a big art district further away. Between them — Korean restaurants and small stores.

As he talked about the neighborhood and what I should do next, I suddenly thought:

“Now I live in Beijing.”

The thought felt surreal — almost unbelievable.

Yet it was the new reality.

The next few days were slow lessons in how to navigate this new life.

Basic things: getting a new phone number, exchanging money, discovering the neighbourhood, learning to cross enormous roads without fear, following Stas to parties.

What else can you do when you end up in a completely new life, when the previous one becomes just a shadow? How do you know what you want here? So you follow the one who seems to understand this place better.

I felt like I could build a new persona, a new version of myself, simply by following others and seeing what else I could become.

After a few days, it was time for my first class. After a night of nervous sleep, I woke early, got dressed, and left. I didn’t hurry. I walked slowly through the grey sheet of morning air, past tall buildings, the university, the distinctive Siemens tower, and a hospital. Massive Attack played in my headphones.

I felt tired, nervous, but strangely happy — when suddenly I heard myself singing out loud. I had never done that before. It felt like a sign: a new self who could sing on the street, without shame and without even knowing the words properly.

The school was nearby, spread across a few small campuses. I found my classroom and took a random seat — not too far in front, not too far in back. I was surrounded by people of different ages, mostly Korean students, one African girl, a few Ukrainians, and others I couldn’t place.

好，同学们！大家好！ — the teacher began.

欢迎你们来到我们的中文课！我是老师，叫李老师。今天，我们开始学习中文。

先学最重要的：你好！(nǐ hǎo) —— Hello!

大家一起说：你好！

(Hello, students! Hello, everyone!

Welcome to our Chinese class! I am your teacher, Li. Today, we begin learning Chinese.

Let’s learn the most important word first: 你好 — Hello!

Everyone say it together: 你好!)

很好 — very good, the teacher replied, and continued speaking in Chinese.

Everyone looked around to make sure it wasn’t just them who didn’t understand a thing. But the class continued exactly like that — purely in Chinese, with only the occasional English word. We practiced the four tones.

When the lesson finished around early afternoon, everyone took their new books and left without trying to know each other.

That became the base of my life — something that finally gave rhythm and structure to it. Daily classes, no matter the hangover or tiredness. For the first time in my life, I was a consistent student.

When I got back from class, Stas was home — skipping his studies — with a friend of his, Lisa. They were already drinking beers and listening to music, lying on the floor by the window.

“How was your class?” they looked at me.

“This is Lisa,” Stas added.

“Hello, Lisa. Class was confusing but I’m excited. Learning a language is not memorizing history books, so should be fine.”

“You know how we learn Chinese?” Lisa picked up a joint lying on the floor near them — I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. She lit it and took a long inhale.

“Like Chinese kids. You just write one character over and over. One page, sometimes a few. That’s how you learn. Super simple. A lot of repetition.”

She passed the joint to Stas.

“Do you want some?” She pointed at the beer and the joint.

“No, thanks. And thank you for the advice — I’ll do it.”

I mentally noted that I needed to buy a bunch of those big notebooks with the square grids for characters.

“But for now, I don’t understand anything.”

“You can call me anytime if you need a translator,” Stas said.

“We all did that when we first arrived. If you’re in a taxi and need to go somewhere, just call me and I’ll talk to the driver.”

“You can call me too, happy to help. I know it’s not easy to start here.” Lisa added.

“By the way, do you want to be an extra in a movie? There’s one next week and they’re looking for people.”

“Extras? What does that mean?”

I felt like I needed to learn not only Chinese, but a whole new set of vocabulary for this new reality I’d never experienced.

“Yeah — extras. Background crowd in a movie. A lot of foreign students do it. Easy, fun way to make some money. You should join, see for yourself.”

Lisa stood up and went to the kitchen to get water. She was short, with a beautiful curvy figure, short hair, strong facial lines.

“I’ve never done it, but sure — I’m in.”

I was excited to make some pocket money, to do a job. I couldn’t continue what I did in Ukraine — being a piercing master. Stas told me maybe I could offer my services here, that we could set up a home practice and promote to Russian speakers. But I couldn’t take on that responsibility. I didn’t have my instruments, and more importantly, I didn’t know what Chinese medical equivalents I should use for complications. I still worked with bodies — so I could forget about that idea.

The next week Lisa sent me the location where I should meet her. She had already talked to the agent and they approved me.

It was early morning. I met her and a group of young foreigners at 6 a.m., waiting for a bus so we could leave for the shooting set.

It took a few hours to arrive. When we got off the bus, the shooting team seemed to be in a small panic. We waited for further instructions. Hours passed. They gave us soy milk and sweet mantou from 7/11. Then finally someone announced that the shoot was canceled.

“The costume director had a fight with someone from the team. Apparently he has a karate background — so he just shut the guy down.”

The gossip spread among the waiting foreigners.

“It’s crazy. He just knocked him out.”

“Sorry everyone, we’re returning to Beijing. The shooting is canceled for today.”

Someone from the team came to tell us.

We left still confused, but we still got paid for the day.

The first failed shooting experience still led me to more — proper shootings and modeling days. Slowly I started to understand how it all worked: meeting agents, putting together a model card, getting my first modeling job. For that job, I got my first-ever high heels.

The heels became my new identity in this new life — I wore them to parties and suddenly got attention from men I never had before. The new persona was working. And parties became another anchor of Beijing life.

I felt like I had created a new persona out of myself — someone who looked different, had new surroundings, even spoke a new language, or at least tried to. Nothing from my past life felt like it was there anymore.

Until I felt an urge to explore the art stores in the area. I bought paints, inks, canvases, and a notebook — something that was always deeply mine. The stores were not much bigger than in Ukraine, but they had far more options to choose from, and canvases and notebooks were offered in much larger sizes, yet still affordable. I felt like I was in an expanded reality of possibility — a place where self-expression had room.

I didn’t know what I would do with all of it, but I needed to paint and draw — to do what I had done since early childhood, the one thing that kept me grounded and inside myself.

At least I could keep a part that didn’t belong to the romantic new life I was performing — a part that could grow on its own terms. Art became another, deeper anchor in my new life.

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