An unfortunate thing about nomadic travel is that we tend to lose track of friends as fast as we make them.
I met Kirill Stefanov, an artist, in a hostel in Cairo.
It was March, he was friendly, his English was good and we’d talk.
He was often on the phone with his wife and children in Russia. He’d left his home shortly before the fighting started in the Ukraine to look for a place to relocate his family safely before the shooting started. He wanted a flat and a small studio where he could pursue his talent. But by then the shooting had started and he was stuck, uncertain how or when he’d be united with his family again.
I wished him luck and left Cairo in pursuit of my journey, which I felt almost ashamed to continue in light of Kirill’s plight. I lost track of him but often think about him. I haven’t had any contact with him since I left the hostel and all I can do is hope that he’s found some way home, either in or out of Russia, and that he and his family are safe.
Just the two of us were in the common room early on the morning that I left. He was quiet, as usual, working on a sketch. I rose to say goodbye and to finish packing my bags but he asked me to wait. He made a few more strokes and surprised me with the portrait that he’d made of me sitting across from him in the room.
I was honored and moved by it and not sure I thanked him adequately for his thoughtfulness.
If anyone reading this knows where he is, please let me know. I’d like to talk to him again.
There are those people who tug at our hearts, with whom we feel an immediate connection because they are authentic, vulnerable, and open. I hope you find him and that he and his family are well.