Lara Gelya's Blog

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Happy New Year to All! Peace and Love from our home to yours!

As the old year gives way to the new, remember—you are the author of your own story.

Each new year brings the exciting promise of fresh starts and new beginnings. Perhaps that’s why we look forward to New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day with such anticipation. Whether you have specific goals for the year ahead or plan to set meaningful resolutions for 2025, this moment is one to savor.

It’s a time to reflect and celebrate the experiences and growth 2024 brought your way, and to welcome the opportunities and possibilities of the year to come.

"Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year." — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Traveling to Rhode Island in December 2024

In early December 2024, we took a tour of Rhode Island, the smallest state in the union, yet one of the most densely populated and heavily industrialized for its size.

Despite being only 37 miles wide and 48 miles long, Rhode Island boasts an impressive 120.5 square miles of shoreline along Narragansett Bay of the Atlantic Ocean. The state is also renowned for producing silverware and fine jewelry. One quirky claim to fame is the world’s largest bug, a 58-foot-long blue termite, perched atop the New England Pest Control building in Providence. This giant termite is 928 times the size of an actual termite. Additionally, Rhode Island is famous for its culinary delights, especially local clam dishes. A standout is “stuffies”—oversized clams stuffed with a savory mix of chopped clams, breadcrumbs, and herbs.

We stayed in Newport, a picturesque city on Aquidneck Island in the New England state of Rhode Island. Known as the City by the Sea, Newport is celebrated as a quintessential New England summer resort, well-known for its historic mansions and rich sailing heritage. The White Horse Tavern in Newport, RI, a National Historic Landmark, is recognized as America's oldest restaurant, serving guests continuously since 1673. With a population of approximately 25,000 residents, Newport combines small-town charm with a vibrant maritime legacy.

Continue reading the entire article here:

https://laragelya.substack.com/p/trav...

Traveling to Rhode Island in December 2024

In early December 2024, we took a tour of Rhode Island, the smallest state in the union, yet one of the most densely populated and heavily industrialized for its size.

Despite being only 37 miles wide and 48 miles long, Rhode Island boasts an impressive 120.5 square miles of shoreline along Narragansett Bay of the Atlantic Ocean. The state is also renowned for producing silverware and fine jewelry. One quirky claim to fame is the world’s largest bug, a 58-foot-long blue termite, perched atop the New England Pest Control building in Providence. This giant termite is 928 times the size of an actual termite. Additionally, Rhode Island is famous for its culinary delights, especially local clam dishes. A standout is “stuffies”—oversized clams stuffed with a savory mix of chopped clams, breadcrumbs, and herbs.

We stayed in Newport, a picturesque city on Aquidneck Island in the New England state of Rhode Island. Known as the City by the Sea, Newport is celebrated as a quintessential New England summer resort, well-known for its historic mansions and rich sailing heritage. The White Horse Tavern in Newport, RI, a National Historic Landmark, is recognized as America's oldest restaurant, serving guests continuously since 1673. With a population of approximately 25,000 residents, Newport combines small-town charm with a vibrant maritime legacy.

Continue reading the entire article here:

https://laragelya.substack.com/p/trav...

So, I ask all of you: how do we endure the next four years of this Dark Time?

I’m sitting in front of my computer, staring at the blank screen.

What do I want to say? Who is going to read it?

But guess what! I’m free to write whatever I want (yet).

All I have to do is write my own truth.

We live between the pages where ink spills truths the heart cannot speak, yet the soul understands.

On January 6, 2021, I was still working on my memoir, Camel from Kyzylkum. I was horrified by what I saw unfolding on my TV screen. Thousands of Donald Trump supporters were storming the U.S. Capitol, attempting to stop the Senate from certifying the election results.
Here what I wrote then:
************************************
FROM JANUARY 2017 TO January 2021, I was terrified to watch the onset of Trump’s tyranny in our country. I saw such familiar signs—I experienced all of them in the Soviet Union! I ran for a better life from the country where I was born. The Soviet Union controlled its citizens with a regime of tyranny. This regime sustained itself in political power by controlling mass media that was disseminating propaganda, by the secret police, by restrictions of free speech and criticism, by mass surveillance and political purges, by the persecution of specific groups of people. The Constitution in the United States was designed to prevent tyranny through a system of checks and balances. We might be tempted to think that our democratic heritage automatically protects us, but in President Trump’s America, those safeguards were failing. Trump held the grandiose belief that only he should rule America. Unchecked by cowed or complicit Republicans in Congress, Trump invoked executive authority to alter policies that were long-established by law and practices. Trump is the only president in the United States who was impeached twice. He came to our lives with a scandal and indecency and he is exiting from our lives with a scandal and indecency.
I’m so relieved that during the election of 2020, democracy prevailed. But we all witnessed how fragile our democracy is. Even though the horrible Trump presidency is over and Joe Biden won the election of 2020, Trump keeps spreading the lie and pretending that the election was stolen from him.
The January 6, 2021 attack on the U.S. Capitol is one of the most unforgettable events in American history and in my life. The Capitol building was last breached when British forces invaded during the War of 1812. Two hundred and nine years later, a mob of insurrectionists attacked the building at the behest of none other than the sitting, but on-the-way-out, U.S. President Donald Trump. Videos from the scene show Capitol police at worst unprepared and at best overwhelmed by the sheer size of the crowd. I watched on TV in disbelief how easily the rioters were able to enter the Capitol building. Trump supporters invaded the Capitol from multiple points—videos and images show the rioters scaling walls, smashing windows, and breaking down doors to get into and advance through the building. Many lawmakers, including Nancy Pelosi and Mike Pence, were evacuated to safe locations.
Just recently, House Speaker Nancy Pelosi created a select special committee to investigate the attack on the U.S. Capitol on January 6, while most GOP members opposed the creation of the committee.
I’m still worried and wondering what is going to happen during elections in 2022 and 2024 and in what direction this country will be heading?
************************************
Today is November 2024.
I’m stressed and depressed, struggling to process my emotions in the wake of the 2024 Presidential election results. Each day, news about Trump’s cabinet and high-level government appointments fills me with dread. Every morning, I find myself asking:
How did we get here? What kind of country have we become? What’s going to happen to us? How can I live a normal life for the next four years?

My fear is overwhelming because I’ve experienced this kind of darkness before—the same deep shadow that now looms over our country. I know its taste and feel all too well. I fled from this darkness 35 years ago, seeking a brighter, better life. And now, here I am, watching the dismantling of American norms and democratic institutions unfold before my eyes. The system of checks and balances seems powerless to stop the terrible transformation our country is undergoing.

I don’t think those who elected Trump fully understand where he will take all of us.

The dramatic changes in our country will ripple across the entire world.

I can’t help but think about Ukraine, the country where I was born. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has caused the deadliest war on European soil in more than 70 years. What was supposed to be a three-day war has now dragged on for nearly three years. The suffering of innocent people is unimaginable.

Since the war began, I’ve lost contact with my childhood friend in Ukraine. I have no idea where she and her family are now—or even if they are still alive.

Trump claims he will end the war quickly, but I can’t shake my fears about Ukraine’s future over the next four years.

And then there’s the promise of mass deportations of immigrants on Trump’s first day in office.

Between 1937 and 1949, Joseph Stalin forcibly deported more than two million people of 13 different nationalities from their homelands to remote areas of the USSR. This mass removal of ethnically defined populations, now recognized as “ethnic cleansing,” involved inconceivable suffering. People were transported in cattle cars and trucks, with those too ill to move often killed on the spot. Many others perished during the journey to destinations like Kazakhstan and Siberia.

Is America going to repeat this history?

I’m a liberal. To be a liberal is to believe that everybody has the right to freedom and that all people are created equal and deserve to live their life with dignity, regardless of their identity.

It’s this belief that drove me to escape the Soviet Union and start my life from scratch in the United States.

I never imagined that the same Dark Time I once lived through in the Soviet Union could come to this country as well. And now, I’m too old to start over in another place.

So, I ask all of you: how do we endure the next four years of this Dark Time?

Exciting news!

Exciting news! I’m thrilled to share the press release for my book, Camel from Kyzylkum. Find more details about this must-read #book here:

https://rb.gy/tkwa15.

Order your copy today at laragelya.com and share the press release with your friends, #readers, and #BookLovers!

"The book's themes are universally relatable, making it more than a personal history. It offers readers the opportunity to empathize with the challenges faced by those who leave behind everything familiar in search of freedom and fulfillment. Camel from Kyzylkum stands out as an inspiring story that reminds us of the resilience of the human spirit and the power of perseverance.

Available in Kindle [https://amzn.to/403VTsm], audiobook [https://amzn.to/3YjZTnl], and paperback formats, you can enjoy this remarkable story however you prefer. Get your copy today on Amazon [https://amzn.to/3BI587D] or Barnes & Noble [https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/came...] and be inspired."

From Ukraine to America: A Refugee’s Narrative

The first time I visited Rome was in early 1990. I was on a mission to find a better life after escaping the Iron Curtain of the Soviet Union. As punishment for my escape, my USSR citizenship was revoked, leaving me stateless, with the status of ‘Refugee of the World.’ I traveled light across continents, with just two suitcases filled with family photos, a few books, spoons, and small pots. I had almost no money in my pocket, but Rome and Italy were still a wonderful discovery and a source of immense cultural enrichment for me in 1990.

During that time, I visited Rome and its historical landmarks such as Vatican City, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, and the Trevi Fountain, to name a few. I also had the most important interview of my life in Rome, at the American Embassy, where I received the green light to go to the USA!

In May of 2024, during our Mediterranean Odyssey trip, we spent some time in Rome. It was a deeply nostalgic and memorable experience for me! Revisiting Rome after so many years brought back a flood of memories and allowed me to see familiar places with new eyes.

I would like to share with you a chapter about my life in Italy in 1990, from my memoir Camel from Kyzylkum:

Italy

My first impression of Italy was that it was quite dirty and noisy. After I got used to the spotless cleanliness of streets and places in Austria, it disappointed me to see trash on the streets and in public places, along with graffiti. For the first time, I saw homeless people sleeping on rags on the marble floor of the subway in Rome. I also noticed how Italians get pretty animated when they talk, compared to very restrained Austrian people. But with time, my opinion about Italy changed—I fell in love with the country, and I grew to love the warmth of Italian people. I came to love Italian bread. The Italian language was like music to my ears, and I even learned how to speak some basics.

For the first two weeks in Italy, we were stationed at the bungalow summer camp south of Rome. It was January, and even during the day it was pleasantly warm outside, but at night it was cold. These bungalow houses did not have heat and were not equipped for the wintertime. I remember I was sleeping in my warmest clothes and even covered myself with a mattress from a spare bed in my bungalow. Nevertheless, I got very sick with a cold, so sick that I thought I would not survive it. During the day I walked to the seafront and sat there for long hours—the warm Mediterranean sun and fresh, salty sea air helped me to slowly recover.

After two weeks in the bungalow summer camp, we were told that we needed to rent apartments for ourselves in the nearby city of Torvaianica, a city south of Rome that was founded in the 1940s and is best known for its beaches. It has a population of about 12,700 inhabitants and extends for about eight kilometers along central Lazio’s coast. The refugee organization, HIAS, gave us money to cover rent and food. I do not remember the exact amount it was per person, but it was just enough for us not to be on the street dying from hunger. Later on, when I was already in the United States and working, I was required to reimburse HIAS for what they’d spent on me. I paid it back gradually, a small amount each month.

There were plenty of apartments available for rent in January. Many of them were at the seaside. Refugees from the Soviet Union usually shared one apartment—a two-room apartment for two families, a three-room apartment for three families. I was alone and in no way could I afford to pay for a room on my own. Someone from the group introduced me to a young fellow who was traveling alone, too. His actual name completely escapes my memory at present, but I’ll call him “Misha.”

Misha was in his early twenties. He was very smart and even knew English. For the first time in his life, he was separated from his parents whom he had left behind in the Soviet Union. Misha and I rented a room in the two-room apartment on the first floor of a building at the seaside. We could sit on the balcony and look at the beach and the Mediterranean Sea in front of us. The enormous wardrobe that was in the room divided our room into two halves to give each of us some privacy. Misha was absolutely unprepared for everyday life. He did not know how to manage the little money we had, how to do grocery shopping, or how to cook food. I felt sorry for him and suggested that he contribute some amount of money for food and I would shop and cook for both of us. Misha was happy to do that.

When I went for an interview for the first time at the American Embassy in Rome, I was asked a lot about places I had worked in the Kyzylkum Desert. They had a detailed map of Uzbekistan on the table and asked me about Zarafshan, Navoi, Uchkuduk. I was surprised; I thought they already knew more than I did.

After the first interview, I had to wait for the second one, a very important interview, after which a decision would be made on whether to allow my entrance to the United States. Many families were denied the entrance visa to the United States without giving any specific reason or explanation. These people had stayed in Italy for six months, for a year, or even longer. They found some jobs to support themselves and their families. Some of them decided to stay in Italy for good. It was an unsettling time.

Every day at 6:00 p.m., all Soviet refugees who stayed in Torvaianica gathered together at the central square of the city. There were a lot of us, and while I do not know the exact number, I remember how the square was filled with a Russian-speaking crowd, to the amazement of the local population of Italians. We were waiting for the Messenger, usually a man who would stand in the middle of the crowd and read the list of people who had gotten permission to go to America. Even though I had not yet had a second interview in the American Embassy, these daily meetings were the biggest entertainment of the day and a learning experience—people mingled together, told stories, shared news, and made friends.

Misha always found me in the crowd after the announcing part was over and asked, “What’s for dinner tonight?” It seemed that he was always hungry. Even though I did not want to go home yet, I felt an obligation to serve him dinner. I thought he was acting like a little baby and since I was not his mother, it was bothering me. There was only one time when I sent Misha to the store to get something for me while I was cooking. He returned with an ice cream cake, our money for two weeks of our food ration gone. We divided the cake among all of the people who lived in both rooms of the apartment. This was the last straw for me. I canceled our contract and let Misha be on his own. Our living arrangements in the apartment remained the same, but I did not cook for him anymore. Meanwhile, we got a new tenant in our room. Another woman, approximately my age, joined us. Three of us shared the room up to the time of my departure.

The distance between Torvaianica and Rome was about 40 kilometers (25 miles), and there was bus transportation. I used the bus a few times. The ride was about 50 to 60 minutes. I did not go often, because the bus was usually packed with people and reminded me very much of the buses in the Soviet Union. Also, traveling by bus costs money I could not spare. Very soon I learned I could get to Rome by hitchhiking—every car driven by an Italian man would stop when they saw a young, pretty woman hitchhiking on the road. Several times I even hitchhiked with Misha. When the car stopped, I told the driver that he was my brother. I must say that most of the time Italians were very reckless drivers, and I felt uncomfortable in the car quite often.

I loved my outings to Rome. I enjoyed exploring the beautiful city where every stone has a history. Once or twice a month, all museums in Rome were free and I took advantage of this. Visiting the Colosseum, St. Peter’s Basilica, the museums of the Vatican, including the Sistine Chapel and the Trevi Fountain, to name a few, all became unforgettable experiences and cultural enrichment for me.

On the days when I was not traveling to Rome, I was discovering Torvaianica. Some items and events from my time there will be engraved in my memory forever.

For instance, there was a shoe and leather accessories store across from our apartment. In the Soviet Union, Italian shoes and leather accessories always were part of every woman’s desirable outfit, but they were difficult to get. In the store across the street was everything I could only dream about: elegant leather shoes, hand purses, belts. I visited the store quite often—not to buy, just to look. The store seemed to me big and exceptional. Years later, in 2001, Sparky and I traveled to Italy and visited Torvaianica. We found the beachfront apartment where I lived at the beginning of 1990 and a shoe store across the road. To my amusement, all at once, I saw an ordinary little store that I calmly browsed through—it did not give me the excitement that it had in 1990. Perception is everything, and I was a very different person by 2001.

The main drag of Torvaianica with its famous Italian bakeries, restaurants, and shopping sprawled along the Mediterranean coast. On the snuggly, warm Italian evenings of January and February, I liked to stroll the street, window shopping and people watching. Italian people did not like to hold back their emotions—they laughed, they talked loudly, helping themselves with gestures, and I loved the music of the Italian language. I always stopped at the window of one particular bakery to examine all of the wonderful baked goods on display, though I could not afford to buy any. One of these baked goods was filled with a mix of rich semolina and ricotta cheese, and was a shell-shaped pastry called Sfogliatelle; Zeppole was another pastry consisting of a deep-fried dough ball dusted with powdered sugar and sometimes filled with various sweets; there was also biscotti, Venetian cookies, and hot chocolate cake—I could not take my eyes off of these beautiful culinary arts. One evening, the owner of the store, a middle-aged Italian man wearing a white chef’s coat and hat, with a lush body, dark mustache, and kind, laughing eyes, came out carrying a plate with a few biscotti and Venetian cookies and offered it to me to taste. Bewildered by his offer and the fact that he, probably, had been watching me evening after evening in front of his window, I did not have the strength to refuse his marvelous-looking, tasty Italian pastries.

Finally, the day came when I received a letter from the American Embassy in Rome with the invitation for the second and most important interview of my life. As I struggled with the English language then, I clearly understood the date and time of my interview, but I completely missed the location. Besides, I was pretty sure that there was only one location for the American Embassy in Rome and I knew where it was. But I was wrong.

The interview was scheduled for 12:00 p.m. I wanted to be collected and prepared. To eliminate any possibility of being late, I arrived at the American Embassy in Rome at 11:00 a.m. It was a sunny, beautiful, spring-like day; I lost myself for a short time (while waiting) on the fascinating streets of Rome. The sidewalk cafes were full of business people enjoying their lunch hours. I was thinking, “Is there going to be a time in my life when I, like them, can sit leisurely at a sidewalk cafe and have lunch? And feel myself as confident, relaxed, and happy as these people?” I wanted to believe that this time would eventually come in my life.

At about 11:45 a.m., I returned to the American Embassy expecting to soon be called by the guard. There was a good crowd of people waiting, like me, to be called. One by one they went inside until only I was left waiting. It was after 12:00 p.m. I got anxious—I began to wonder why I was not being called. I showed my paper to the guard. He explained to me (mostly by gestures and with some Italian phrases) that my interview was in a completely different location on the other side of the city. I was shocked. First, I had no money to get a taxi. Second, I thought my life was doomed. With this realization, I stood on the curb of the street in the center of Rome and sobbed bitterly. Tears rolled down my face.

Well, the Italian people did not easily tolerate this scene. Soon enough, a taxi cab stopped by me. The driver got out of the car and asked me what had happened. Continuing to cry, I showed him my paper invitation for the interview and tried to explain to him that I had come to the wrong location. He looked at the paper and then at me and started vigorously gesticulating, pushing me inside the taxi cab. Even inside the taxi, I could not stop crying. The driver turned around to me shouting some equivalent of “Shut up” in Italian. I became quiet. I realized he was going to drive me to the address where I needed to be. While he was driving, I feverishly thought about how I would pay for my ride as I had very little money in my pocket. But I was wearing a gorgeous silver ring with a gemstone on the ring finger of my left hand. The ring was handmade with an intricate Gothic design and a big, beautiful, pink, tourmaline stone—it was my favorite ring! I bought it during my vacation in Latvia, a country on the Baltic Sea—Latvia was a part of the Soviet Union from 1940 to 1991. I immediately decided to pay for my ride with the ring.

We arrived at the address of the second location of the American Embassy. I paid for the ride with the ring. The grounds of the Embassy were surrounded by a high fence and the gates were closed. I was not sure how I could get inside. However, the gates opened for an incoming car and I just sneaked through the gates behind the car and ran towards the main building. I entered a room full of people waiting to be called for their interviews. My face was red, mascara smeared across my face, and my hair was messed up. Immediately, I heard my name being called. I walked into a smaller room where two men asked me questions. Then one man with reddish hair said to me how he had grown up in Buffalo, New York. He asked me if I knew how severe the winter could be in Buffalo. I said, “Probably not worse than in Siberia.” They both laughed. With this, my interview was over. From that point, I would have to wait for the Messenger at the Torvaianica square to call my name and give me an official paper with “Yes” or “No” written on it.

After two weeks or so, the Messenger at the 6:00 p.m. gathering at the Torvaianica square called my name. I was not nervous; for some reason, I was sure that it would be “Yes”. I calmly opened the envelope—there were dates for my flight from Rome to New York City. It was exciting news for me, and in anticipation of big changes in my life, I started to prepare myself for the trip.
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UK Reader's House Magazine Interview

https://newyox.com/fo/readers-house/a...

I'm thrilled to share that the UK Reader's House Magazine printed my interview in their publication (in print and online). Click on the link above to go to page 16 with my interview.

#camelfromkyzylkum #laragelya #memoir #LifeJourney

Remembering September 11, 2001

Remembering September 11, 2001

Before September 11, 2001, the Twin Towers had stood proudly in New York City reaching 110 stories high. Then, twenty-three years ago, on that fateful day, the tragic loss of nearly 3,000 innocent Americans shook the world. I lived through this harrowing day and remember it vividly. Here’s how I documented it in my memoir Camel from Kyzylkum (you can get your copy at laragelya.com)

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, APPEARED no different from any other late summer day in the big, metropolitan D.C. area. I was driving to work on the Capital Beltway from Virginia to Maryland when National Public Radio (NPR) announced that a plane had flown into one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. After this announcement, NPR continued its normally scheduled program. My brain could not process what I had just heard, and I became nervous. Had I understood correctly? A plane flew into the Twin Towers? How? Why? I wanted to get to my destination as soon as possible, get on the Internet, and find out what happened. When I arrived at Emmes, I saw people gathered in small groups near computer screens. I joined a group of people from our department. We stared at the screen in disbelief, watching the events unfolding in New York City, the report of the first plane crashing into the North Tower, and then the second going into the South Tower. It was then we understood it was a terrorist attack. Shortly after the report, Emmes let all employees go home for the rest of the day.
In distress, I drove back home on the already congested beltway. I thought we might be at war. For the rest of the day, we watched TV at home. As if in a horror movie, we watched the Twin Towers crumbled, diminished to dust. The structural steel of the skyscrapers, built to withstand winds over 200 miles per hour and a large conventional fire, could not withstand the tremendous heat generated by the burning jet fuel. We learned that nineteen terrorists had hijacked four airplanes. They carried out suicide attacks against different targets in the United States. These terrorists were associated with the Islamic extremist group, Al-Qaeda. In New York City, two planes hit the World Trade Center twin towers, a third plane hit the Pentagon just outside of Washington, D.C., a thirty-minute drive from our home, and a fourth plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania, near Shanksville. The last of these flights, United 93, was hijacked about forty minutes after leaving Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey. Because the plane had been delayed in taking off, passengers on board learned of the events in New York and Washington via cell phones. The passengers fought the four hijackers. There is a belief that they attacked the cockpit with a fire extinguisher. The plane then flipped over and sped toward the ground, crashing in a rural field near Shanksville in western Pennsylvania at 10:10 a.m. All forty-four people aboard were killed. The intended targets of hijackers are not known, but theories include the White House, the U.S. Capitol, the Camp David presidential retreat in Maryland, or one of several nuclear power plants along the eastern seaboard.
More than 3,000 people never made it home that night. We witnessed the largest terrorist attack on American soil since the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. Many weeks passed before I was able to fully process the events of that day. Our innocence on our home front was forever shattered. From that point, we have looked at the world and ourselves differently.
Eighteen years later, in October of 2019, Sparky and I traveled to New York City. We visited the “National September 11 Memorial Museum” that was built where the World Trade Center twin towers once proudly stood. The somber memory of September 11, 2001, will stay with me forever.

Celebrating March 15th.

March 15th is a very special date for me and I celebrate it every year since my arrival in the United States. It is a date that sharply divided my life in two – “life before” and “life after”. The two halves are so dramatically different that I called them “my first life” and “my second life”. I was born in Ukraine at the time it was a part of the Soviet Union. Thirty four years ago I stepped out of the airplane with two suitcases and refugee status, possessing nothing except hope for a better life. What does being a refugee really mean? It means that you are forced from having a relatively normal life to having nothing; it means that you need to be prepared to overcome unimaginable challenges! I started my journey in the new land with learning English and working hard, accepting any menial job in order to survive. A lot of schools and learning before I finally got a professional job that, after 17.5 years, allowed me to retire and move to Florida. When Covid-19 paralyzed the country (and us), I reflected on my life and spent days and months writing a book about my life journey. Everyone has his/her own story. My life story is not perfect, with a lot of tears shed, battles lost, battles won, but it's OK. I thought it was time to share my life story with the World. There are some history lessons. But, most of all, I hope my book helps everyone who reads it to never give up their dreams and hopes! You can live your life in wonderful ways, no matter what challenges it throws at you, just believe in yourself!
On this special day for me I would like to present to you an excerpt from my book, Camel from Kyzylkum, where I described the most important interview of my life, the interview in the American Embassy in Italy, the interview in 1990 that my entire future depended on.
If you already read my book, please feel free to leave your comments/reviews here.
My book “Camel from Kyzylkum: A Memoir of My Life Journey” is available for you at:
My website - laragelya.com
Amazon - https://amazon.com/dp/B09Y7GTZQS/
Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/.../ca......
Finally, the day came when I received a letter from the American Embassy in Rome with the invitation for the second and most important interview of my life. As I struggled with the English language then, I clearly understood the date and time of my interview, but I completely missed the location. Besides, I was pretty sure that there was only one location for the American Embassy in Rome and I knew where it was. But I was wrong.
The interview was scheduled for 12:00 p.m. I wanted to be collected and prepared. To eliminate any possibility of being late, I arrived at the American Embassy in Rome at 11:00 a.m. It was a sunny, beautiful, spring-like day; I lost myself for a short time (while waiting) on the fascinating streets of Rome. The sidewalk cafes were full of business people enjoying their lunch hours. I was thinking, “Is there going to be a time in my life when I, like them, can sit leisurely at a sidewalk cafe and have lunch? And feel myself as confident, relaxed, and happy as these people?” I wanted to believe that this time would eventually come during my life.
About 11:45 a.m., I returned to the American Embassy expecting to soon be called by the guard. There was a good crowd of people waiting, like me, to be called. One by one they went inside until only I was left waiting. It was after 12:00 p.m. I got anxious—I began to wonder why I was not being called. I showed my paper to the guard. He explained to me (mostly by gestures and with some Italian phrases) that my interview was in a completely different location on the other side of the city. I was shocked. First, I had no money to get a taxi. Second, I thought my life was doomed. With this realization, I stood on the curb of the street in the center of Rome and sobbed bitterly. Tears rolled down my face.
Well, the Italian people did not easily tolerate this scene. Soon enough, a taxi cab stopped by me. The driver got out of the car and asked me what had happened. Continuing to cry, I showed him my paper invitation for the interview and tried to explain to him that I had come to the wrong location. He looked at the paper and then at me and started vigorously gesticulating, pushing me inside the taxi cab. Even inside the taxi, I could not stop crying. The driver turned around to me shouting some equivalent of “Shut up” in Italian. I became quiet. I realized he was going to drive me to the address where I needed to be. While he was driving, I feverishly thought about how I would pay for my ride as I had very little money in my pocket. But I was wearing a gorgeous silver ring with a gemstone on the ring finger of my left hand. The ring was handmade with an intricate Gothic design and a big, beautiful, pink, tourmaline stone—it was my favorite ring! I bought it during my vacation in Latvia, a country on the Baltic Sea—Latvia was a part of the Soviet Union from 1940 to 1991. I immediately decided to pay for my ride with the ring.
We arrived at the address of the second location of the American Embassy. I paid for the ride with the ring. The grounds of the Embassy were surrounded by a high fence and the gates were closed. I was not sure how I could get inside. However, the gates opened for an incoming car and I just sneaked through the gates behind the car and ran towards the main building. I entered a room full of people waiting to be called for their interviews. My face was red, mascara smeared across my face, and my hair was messed up. Immediately, I heard my name being called. I walked into a smaller room where two men asked me questions. Then one man with reddish hair said to me how he had grown up in Buffalo, New York. He asked me if I knew how severe the winter could be in Buffalo. I said, “Probably not worse than in Siberia.” They both laughed. With this, my interview was over. From that point, I would have to wait for the Messenger at the Torvaianica square to call my name and give me an official paper with “Yes” or “No” written on it.
After two weeks or so, the Messenger at the 6:00 p.m. gathering at the Torvaianica square called my name. I was not nervous; for some reason, I was sure that it would be “Yes”. I calmly opened the envelope—there were dates for my flight from Rome to New York City. It was exciting news for me, and in anticipation of big changes in my life, I started to prepare myself for the trip.