Distant Relations Suddenly Feel Close
We’ve come so far, so fast.
Remember only a few years ago when citizen diplomats to the Soviet Union feared they would be arrested for talking too long with Intourist guides, or for leaving books or blue jeans?
Or remember when a visit to Orange County by a Soviet, any Soviet, was cause for a full-length feature story? When we took them to the South Coast Plaza, recorded the dropping of their jaws, quoted them on the virtues of freedom, etc.?
Now, Soviets have their own Big Macs. They have Robert Schuller on prime-time TV.
Now, an ordinary Irvine businessmen--who doesn’t even speak Russian--can go to Moscow, build an American hotel and trade center, appear on a talk show, meet a teen-age Soviet beauty--who barely speaks English--and bring her back home with him.
And here she is: Miss Moscow.
For her part, Mariya Masha Kalinina contradicts every lingering stereotype of olive-gray, overweight socialism. Like her country, she is lurching toward the future, looking around wide-eyed at what capitalism might do for her.
The first beauty queen in the history of the Soviet state, she has embraced a notion that is already waning here: that a beauty contest title can springboard a young woman to other possibilities. In her case, it may lead to a career in acting or modeling. At least an education in broadcast journalism.
Or maybe a lot of hype.
We first heard about her when her host, local businessman Paul Tatum, called to tell us what he had done and who she was.
We met in Tatum’s Irvine office, a semi high-rise decorated inside with abstract prints and impermanent-looking furniture.
The 19-year-old was sitting in a conference room, surrounded by middle-aged executives. The men apparently had nothing better to do than peruse her European high-fashion model portfolio and some T-shirts she had made herself. A blond woman sat off to the side, silent, smoking.
Dressed in a bright red, British-made suit with a black velvet collar, Mariya raised her 5-foot, 10-inch frame to shake hands and flash an amazingly wide and friendly smile. Here was someone we supposed only existed in toy stores. Russian Barbie, in person.
And enthusiastic. She answered most questions “Oh, yes,” even if they were not quite understood and needed to be repeated.
We talk about how the company has sponsored her trip, how maybe she will, in some vague ways, bring them some publicity.
So where is she staying, we ask. The replies come from everywhere and say nothing, until Tatum, his blondish hair sticking up in the current fashion, finally answers, “She is staying with me.”
A romance? No, no, nothing like that. “She calls me Papa.”
He schedules her itinerary, down to her workouts at his gym.
Where is this story going? To the gym.
Surrounded by a cavernous glass and metal building filled with equipment and staring men, Mariya is oblivious.
The shop presents Mariya with a free outfit and a personal trainer named Chance. She does some exercises, we take pictures. We make sure the gym people know we’re not promising anything here.
The men are awe-struck. One man, tanned and wrinkled, comments she sure looks better than the “silicone jobs” he usually sees at the gym.
We leave. But, before, Mariya wonders if maybe we shouldn’t say she is staying with Paul, people probably wouldn’t understand, and maybe we should say she is staying with somebody else, a woman.
Does she think this is Pravda?
The day the story ran, small and inside, I get a call from another businessman. He knows a young man, not himself, who could help Mariya learn English. Maybe I could put them in touch.
I get another call from an executive at Tatum’s company. He says Mariya will be staying with families of other employees.
What a country.
In the mid-1980s, I interviewed a psychotherapist who was taking citizen diplomats to the Soviet Union. The travelers were so fearful that the leaders held group therapy sessions in Czechoslovakia to prepare them to meet real Soviets. Now I wonder if maybe it’s the Soviets who could use help. After they’ve met us.