A Big Fan of San Diego in Leningrad

LENINGRAD — On my last day in the Soviet Union, I escaped the tour group to explore the city of Leningrad on my own.

When I stopped to examine the map on Nevsky Prospekt, Leningrad’s main street, a young man stopped and asked in clear, California-style English if I needed directions. Carrying a backpack, dressed in blue jeans and a Kelly green Lacoste shirt, with his short, dark brown hair swept back stylishly from a copper-tanned face and light green eyes, I mistook him for another American out prowling the streets.

I admitted I needed help finding my way back toward the river and my hotel. He pointed out the cross streets in smooth, unhesitating Russian; obviously, this was no American. I asked his name and where he was from.

“My name is Dmitri,” he said. “I’m from Leningrad.”

When I told him I was from San Diego, his green eyes widened. “San Diego is my favorite city in America. Do you live near the Golden Triangle east of La Jolla? Do you ever go to Bella Via, the jazz club in Cardiff? Do you think the house prices in Del Mar Heights are high?”

Thousands of Questions

In quick succession, he asked thousands of questions about San Diego. Did I like living there? What neighborhood did I live in? He wasn’t familiar with Hillcrest but he liked Del Mar and La Jolla.

Finally, I had to ask, “How do you know so much about San Diego? Have you been there?”

“No, of course not,” he said impatiently. “It’s impossible for us to visit.” I kept pressing: “How do you know so much about the city?”

“Someone gave me a copy of San Diego magazine,” Dmitri answered. He had memorized the issue by reading and rereading it cover to cover; he could nearly recite the night life section, the names of the bands, the housing values in the ads. He knew as much or more about San Diego as I did and I had been an assistant editor at San Diego magazine for nearly six years. I still contribute stories monthly. He, too, was amazed at the coincidence but didn’t want to tell me which issue he had read.

Like the hundreds of other teen-age “pseudo-Americans”--the name the Soviets give to youths who are crazy about American culture--in the Soviet Union who trade goods and foreign currency on the black market, he was afraid any information would somehow, someday get him in trouble.

As we strolled down Nevsky Prospekt, he relaxed and confided that the issue contained a story titled “Beyond Black and White” about the Sagon Penn trial. He asked about the writer and the case. I told him one of the editors of San Diego magazine, Maribeth Mellin, had written it. He had read the story slowly, trying to follow the court proceedings and understand the issues.

As a summer shower began pelting the street with big raindrops, Dmitri asked if I would join he and a friend for a cup of coffee. Still curious, I agreed.

We walked to the shop where they had arranged to meet. In speedy Russian he explained who I was; then turned and introduced Igor and me in English. Igor also spoke English but not quite as fluently as Dmitri.

Igor gave me his wool sweater to put over my head to protect against the rain as we walked a few blocks to a small coffee shop on a side street. Located on the ground floor of an old stone building, the coffee shop was sparsely furnished with waist-high tables and stools scattered beneath a high ceiling. We ordered strong espresso and chocolate bars from the country--macho, they wouldn’t let me pay--then carried them to a corner table purposely distant from other customers.

Dmitri and Igor had reason to be cautious. Still only in their early 20s, both had gotten in trouble with the authorities for distributing pamphlets for a church. They had been expelled from the film school they attended for their extracurricular activities. Their next assignment was stoking coal--but that didn’t last long. They quit. Soviet citizens are allowed to be unemployed only two months--after that unemployment is illegal.

During their months of freedom, Igor and Dmitri were keeping busy and making big plans. With the money they earned from their black market business ventures, they bought Kodak video film and rented camera equipment to make movies about their experiences with the church group, and stoking coal, and their lives as rather individualistic youth in a country that frowns on individuality.

They also sailed off the coast of Leningrad every day in a sailboat leased from the state for less than 10 rubles a year.

“Are there sailing or yacht clubs in San Diego?” Dmitri asked me. “Could I join?” I said the distance and political factors might prevent him from joining the San Diego Yacht Club. I explained that sailing is a very expensive hobby in the United States but very popular along the San Diego coast. Despite being devoted to sailing, they had not heard of that international sailing event, the America’s Cup.

Igor and Dmitri were not perfecting their sailing for mere sport. They were outfitting their boat for an escape to Finland and eventually the United States. Once they arrived here they wanted to make big money in the movie business: “How would we sell our movies?”

I explained what I knew about the film business and suggested they sell their movies to a TV show like “60 Minutes.” But they weren’t impressed by my knowledge of the film business. Evidently, other Americans had also recommended “60 Minutes”; they were after bigger money.

We finished our coffee and we headed for my hotel. They wanted to know more about San Diego and San Diego magazine. I told them the magazine is family owned; that Ed Self founded it nearly 40 years ago and still reads nearly every word that goes into it.

They asked about other magazines. I offered to give them a copy of Esquire, which was at my hotel. No, I didn’t want to trade it for anything. And no, much as I liked the traditional Russian lacquer boxes, I didn’t want to risk taking one out of the country. I also offered to give them a book of poetry by San Diego artist James Hubbell, which had been printed in both English and Russian. I described his stained-glass artistry and his home-studio in Julian.

We took a streetcar to my hotel and got off at a stop just beyond the building. Dmitri and Igor didn’t want to get too close to the hotel. They promised to meet me in half an hour at a corner poster shop at a spot shielded from prying eyes by a deep overhang.

I returned with the Esquire magazine and the slim volume of poetry tucked discreetly in my tote bag. When I slipped them out Dmitri’s eyes lit up. He tucked them in his backpack and asked me if he could buy me a poster. I said no. As we said goodby he took my arm and said: “Remember to tell Ed Self this exactly: I really enjoy your magazine and because of it I want to come to San Diego and live.”

I gave him my card and told him to look me up when he arrived.