My Babushka

Posted by Shireen Sandoval  12/27/12, 10:00pm

People were starving, they were dying as war raged on around them. But Yuri & Lara's love could not be stopped. It was if nothing else mattered. It forged on like the Russian Revolution. It was their destiny (like a flower being born, it pushed its way through the dirt, toward the light, claiming a life of its own, blossoming amongst chaos.) 

Together or apart: Dr. Yuri Zhivago & Lara Antipova would be dragged by lust for decades, into a passionate affair of the heart. Unbeknownst to me, I would be dragged along with them. 

"Doctor Zhivago"'s story started in 1958, when it was written by Boris Pasternak (who would go on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature for his epic novel.) My story started when I was a little girl, on a snowy day, in front of the television, when my mother insisted we watch an old movie. She said: "It’s one of the best movies ever made and it was directed by David Lean." I stared at her blankly. She tilted her head sideways and purred: "It’s beautiful. It stars Omar Sharif and Julie Christie. You'll adore it." I started crying and asked: "Can we watch the Smurfs instead?"

After the movie (197 minutes later, but who's counting?), I dozed off and dreamed of Imperial Russia. I was floating around a ballroom, in a gorgeous hand stitched, deep purple velvet dress, with puffy sleeves. I was in Yuri's arms, dancing, as a balalaika player lightly strummed "Lara's Theme." 

I’d like to say I wept in my sleep over war, struggling with the ruins of even the richest of nations. Instead, my absent consciousness transformed me into Julie Christie. I was wearing a sandy colored babushka with a matching muff. I found myself tucked into a comfy train cabin, peering through a window, staring at the snow-drenched Russian countryside as it passed by. I batted my eyelashes, exhaled on the glass and started tracing my initials on the breath left behind. Then suddenly, I woke up. I brushed the sleep from my eyes. It was official. Smurfette had been replaced in my vapid imagination, but that babushka was burned into my brain. 

The Academy Award-winning movie would go on to take its place in cinematic history. Years later, I would go on to take an Airbus A380 bound for Moscow. I knew the only way to fulfill my "Dr. Zhivago" fashion fantasy would be to travel to The Motherland itself.

Russia was everything I’d imagined it would be and more. I did a lot of things (I won’t bore you with the sordid details.) More importantly, I found My Babushka, in Red Square. I hustled it on the street, with a few of my journalist friends. It was a great moment. I remember laughing and smiling. I was happy. And yes, I even thought of my childhood obsession with "Dr. Zhivago." The guy that sold it to me knew he had me at "Dasvidaniya" (which means "good-bye" in Russian, or "until we meet again.") We never did meet him again and for the record, I would have paid twice the rubles he was asking for it. 

I still think about Yuri & Lara’s story a lot and all the different things love can mean to different people. It can rip you apart or make you whole. I guess it depends on what you choose, or does it choose you? (I’m a blogger, not a philosopher.) Even though it doesn’t snow in South Florida, every holiday season, I pull out my old movie and watch anew. 

Pasternak wrote in his epic novel, "She was here on earth to make sense of its wild enchantments." I couldn’t agree more. Matter-of-fact, I look more convincing when I say that with My Babushka on. 

Wanna get swept away in your own fashionable Russian romance? You can buy a good quality babushka at www.NorthernHats.com/

The Gallant Gladiator

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

The Gallant Gladiator a blog story...

I know it didn't happen in slow motion but it felt that way. My feet danced around me; forward and backward, up and down, side to side. My body lunged in different directions, twisting and turning, in what I thought was a dazzling display of agility. So, imagine my surprise when my enemy sunk her dagger straight into my heart. I gasped in pain and my body grew limp. After she stabbed me, she pulled me close and whispered: "Rest in peace Gallant Gladiator."

Rosebuds, Mr. Herrick, Clover Canyon & Floggs

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

When Springtime approaches, the poem "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May" incessantly runs through my head. It affects me in two ways. At first, I feel a renewal of sorts. Spring brings such possibilities. Then I feel an overwhelming need to inflict pain on Robert Herrick. He's the 17th-century English writer that penned the poem. It's basically a warning to young people to heed love ASAP. He states: "That age is best which is the first." My translation - love is better when you're young (virgin-like) so get it while the gettin's good.

Paula, Kookie & Molly my hair chronicle ...

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I didn't lose my hair all at once. It came out little by little, here and there. It trailed behind me like a brillant mystery novel, leaving little clues to my whereabouts. First, I noticed it on my pillow. Then my shower drain. I'd find strands on my shoulders and frantically pick them off. Eventually a clump would follow. Each piece was like a string of rope coming untethered. The once strong, tightly bound fibers unraveled around me. Over time, my magnificent mane became minuscule. The bottom shed so much it turned see-through. The top, typically full, thinned-out into a lackluster, lifeless thing that just laid there. It was a case of "hair today, gone tomorrow" literally.

A Fashion Felony

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I was in a deep sleep when the raid happened. It was the middle of the night. The sound of the front door getting kicked in jolted me from my slumber. My heart raced. I knew it was over. I had the premonition a few days prior. I just didn't think it'd be so soon. I'd prepared myself - going over and over it - hundreds of times in my head. But now that it was actually happening, I wasn't ready. I looked through the darkness, toward the door of my bedroom and saw flashlights flooding my apartment. A cop yelled my name, demanding my surrender. I couldn't let them take me. Not now. Not like this. I was vunerable, disheveled and undressed.