Svetlana Andreyeva: Finding Yourself Through Travel

Finding Yourself Through Travel

Traveling is one of the most effective ways to find yourself. There are countless stories of women who have ventured abroad in search of new careers, life’s purpose, and that “something new” we all crave at certain stages of our lives.

Svetlana Andreyeva, a journalist and executive director of her own PR agency from Moscow, shared her journey to Prague, her business lifestyle, and how to balance work with self-discovery.

The Day of Departure

The day I left the country was utterly chaotic. In the morning, I sold my mink fur coat—the last one in my collection (I was heading to a place where fur coats are unnecessary). During the day, I met with a client, bought a suitcase on the way, and rushed home with it. There were only two hours left before my flight, and the pile of boxes in my apartment was growing. Rita, my driver, and I dashed between her car and my 13th-floor apartment, loading all that remained of my life in Moscow into a small KIA. Eleven years is a long time, but I never realized I owned so many pairs of shoes! An hour later, the car looked like a truck in the province of Matanzas (Cuba has little transport, and any car is obliged to pick up hitchhikers). Leaving a bunch of valuable items in the apartment, we rushed to Sheremetyevo Airport. My cat, Pusha, sensing the gravity of the moment, fell silent in her carrier.

There were only 10 minutes left until the end of check-in when we rushed through vet control. In five minutes, I managed to pull Pusha out of the carrier, show her to the vets, and put her back, while the vet control officers checked the documents and issued an international certificate allowing Pusha free entry into the EU. Twenty minutes later, we boarded the plane. Half an hour later, Pusha, taken out with the silent consent of the Czech Airlines stewardesses, was accepting compliments from those around her, snacking on their generous offerings. Two hours later, we landed in beloved Prague. Seeing the familiar outlines through the window, I smiled: the worst was behind me.

Five Months Earlier

An office in the Investigative Department of Khimki. The interrogation had been going on for six hours. The investigator—a pretty girl with cold eyes—explained to me for the hundredth time that I “would not win this war,” and she would find a reason to put me in jail. At nine in the evening, I left there, having signed papers against myself. My head was spinning, my hands were shaking. I took a deep breath of the frosty air. My mobile phone vibrated; I answered the call from the one who had brought me to this point. My daughter. Not my biological daughter, but a girl I had met at a concert we organized as part of my charity project “Tango of Kindness” at her school. She seemed like an ordinary skinny teenager, but my journalist’s intuition told me something was wrong. And I was right: the girl came from a troubled family—an alcoholic father and a drug-addicted mother. She was given to an orphanage right after birth and taken back into the family only at the age of 11. By that time, her mother had died, her father had become an alcoholic, and her grandmother—her father’s mother—lived with a partner, both unemployed and living on credit. The girl was starving and sick. For three years, I took care of her, becoming more and more involved in her life and learning terrible details.

Now I was fighting with the guardianship, former foster parents, the Russian Children’s Rights Commissioner, and the whole world to protect her.

June

The trial against the girl’s abusive father was in full swing, as was the battle with the guardianship, which we seemed to have won: the girl received all the benefits, safety, and a guarantee that upon turning 18— in six months—she would be given an apartment. And I felt unable to combine the fight for justice and my business. To be honest, I did not feel able to live.

I called a journalist friend, but instead of talking about work, I asked if he knew a psychiatrist. He did. I went to the psychiatrist. I was prescribed antidepressants. I continued to live.

July

I was sitting under a pine tree in Losiny Ostrov, trying to cope with another panic attack. A call—it was my former newsmaker from my days at the Agency of Journalistic Investigations and my friend. He asked how I was living. I told him and suddenly, unexpectedly for myself, added: I am leaving the country. I am tired of being afraid. Saying this, I felt relief.

August

I gave away and sold everything I could, bought a one-way ticket, and arranged the “cat” documents. I did not ask myself what I would do and how I would live “there.” The main thing was to take myself and the cat away.

August 31, 2015

Václav Havel Airport. The cat and I go through customs. “Are you staying with us for long?” the beautiful Czech customs officers ask me, peering into the carrier. Pusha sits, fluffed up, on a dirty sheet and is angry. For a few weeks, I say, then to Italy (I have an email from Ragusa in my mail: “Svetlana, we are waiting for you with your cat friend”). They smile and wave at me: welcome. I go out into the warm Prague night.

Half an hour later, Pusha and I settle into our new home. Martin, David’s brother, from whom I rented the apartment through Airbnb, kindly shows us our loft. It is perfect. Bright, modern, two-story. Minimalism and beauty. A symbol of my new life. I let the cat out. Pusha cautiously explores the area. Looking at the cat’s tail, I realize that I left the cat shampoo in the Moscow apartment and, more importantly, the cat litter. It’s 11 pm now. In Prague, this is late for shopping. Waving my hands, I explain the situation to Martin. He nods, disappears behind the door, and brings a tray and litter for the toilet. They have two cats, he explains. Everything is fine. I solemnly promise to compensate for the damage the very next morning.

I say goodbye to Martin, close the door behind him, and go to wash the cat. Pusha, in shock from the number of unexpected changes in a day, allows herself to be washed and sits down to lick herself on the ottoman. I unpack my things. Shower, and I fall into bed. Above me, through the skylight, is the dark sky of Prague, dotted with small stars and one bright star. Once, during my first visit to Cuba, I found it in the sky and, it seems, brought it with me here. Home. I am home. Smiling, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Two Homes

In this world, I have two homes. Home for me is a place of strength where you can come wounded, tired, and be filled with strength. Or come running, shining, connect with the power of home, and become even more abundant. Years pass, events happen, but everything in the house remains in its place. One home remained only in my memory. I close my eyes and wander through its rooms and garden. The second is Prague. I touch its cobblestone streets with my heart and heal.

I know this city better than myself; I can walk through it with my eyes closed. I have absorbed all its stories, myths, and legends. I first came to Prague in 2011 when I had completely exhausted myself with people, work, and events. A lover of France, fluent in French, I landed in Prague and forgot about Paris. Then, returning to the Moscow hustle and bustle, I promised myself to come back. On the Moscow-Prague flight, I heard a conversation between neighbors: a girl shared with her acquaintance news from her business, which allows her not only to realize herself but also to travel. I, a harassed PR specialist from Bazel, who had barely managed to get a week off and spent it with a mobile phone to my ear, told myself: someday I will have the same. Six months later, I quit Bazel and opened my own PR agency. Our first clients were my former employers who needed my skills and competencies.

I returned to Prague in 2012, already as a businesswoman. Out of habit, I took guidebooks, but they turned out to be unnecessary—I knew the city as if I had lived in it all my life. In my little shops, my things were waiting for me; restaurateurs greeted me joyfully and asked about my affairs. Familiar places, familiar faces, homes.

In 2013, when the pain of personal loss was unbearable, instead of ending my life, I returned to Prague. I walked along the Vltava, touched the stones of Charles Bridge, and felt how the city filled me with strength. I returned to Moscow and opened my second PR agency. Life went on.