Eli McCann: From Russia with love — A stranger in the woods, his accordion and the moment I will always remember

In 2009, I spent the summer in Moscow as a legal intern for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had a year of law school under my belt, and so, armed with essentially no experience to be useful to anyone, I arrived for my first day of work and asked for an assignment.

The office staffers, who could not have been less excited to see me, pointed to a pile of busy work covered in dust and issued several vague instructions.

I was not paid for this internship.

Quite poor at the time, I was only able to be in Russia, thanks to a friend of a dog of a nanny of an acquaintance who knew an American couple in Moscow with a spare bedroom and gigantic hearts. Having never met me, they took pity on me and offered free rent.

On my first day, a young woman with long blond hair and so much charisma it could start a cult, stopped by to meet me. Her name was Kimberly, and she was also an American working in the building. She insisted we hang out that evening and party in town.

We were both active Latter-day Saints at the time, so the several months of hooliganism in which we gleefully engaged was mostly PG-rated. Nonetheless, we were 24 years old, and had the energy and poor judgment to prove it, so we’d stay out until past 1 a.m., wandering the streets, going to clubs, and sometimes climbing into unmarked vehicles with strangers to check out some party to which we’d been promised entry.

At evening’s end, I’d have to figure out a way to get home. The family members who hosted me lived on the edge of the giant city, and the only public transportation still running that late could at best get me within a few miles of their place. I never had much money, so taxis usually felt out of the question. To make it back in the dark of night, I had to walk.

Into the woods

The trek along the somewhat-lit streets would take 45 minutes. If I was willing to chance a shortcut through a forest, I could make it in half the time. I had no flashlight, and there had been reports of violence in the woods. But I also did not have a fully formed prefrontal cortex, so I took the forest shortcut every night.

Once, while walking through the trees, stepping on snapping twigs and tripping over rocks, I heard in the distance what sounded like a cry or a yell. I had never come across anyone in this forest, and now, wholly spooked, I regretted having ever thought this was a good idea.

I couldn’t make out the direction of the sound, and I wasn’t sure whether I should go back the way I had come, or find another route. I ultimately decided the best way out was to press on.

As I walked, the sound grew louder, and I was able to hear that it wasn’t a cry or yell, but rather, it was music — specifically an accordion.

I was so intrigued by this — by the possibility that someone was out in this deserted place at 2 in the morning serenading the trees — that rather than venture home, I followed the music. Eventually I found the source: a man in his 50s, sitting alone on a fallen log, playing his instrument, a dim lantern on the ground, gently lighting the small cove.

He looked up at me. His cheeks were red, and he nodded, which I interpreted as an invitation, so I sat down across from him.

After a while, he stopped and asked me what I was doing there in the forest. My Russian, though not good, was sufficient enough for this chat. I told him I was walking home and asked him if he often came out at night to play.

“Only,” he replied, “when I have something I need to forget.” I then noticed he seemed sad, and his eyes were puffy.

That was the extent of our talk. He went on to play for the next 45 minutes before I finally got up and left to walk home, the music fading away behind me.

I never saw or heard him again.

Share and share alike

It’s been nearly 17 years since that experience, but I think about it often — about how strange it is that people from different places and with different life experiences can stumble upon one another and share something, even without saying much.

Kimberly recently was in town, so she dropped by for a visit. Nearly two decades have passed us both by as has the reality that adulthood tends to get more complicated with age. It’s odd — five minutes ago, it seems, we were digging through our bags in the Moscow metro to find enough collective change for the fare, and now, somehow, we’re 41-year-old parents, somberly discussing our biggest stresses and worries.

Sitting on my patio and holding my child, we reminisced about the poor choices we had made — but didn’t regret during summer 2009. About how different our lives look now. About how much we miss having the energy to walk home at 2 a.m. but how nice it is now to have the money for a taxi if we accidentally get caught out that late.

As we slowly glided on two rocking chairs next to one another, I thought of the accordion and the man who almost certainly never thinks of me.

I don’t really know anything about that man. Is he religious? Does he have political views that mimic my own? Does he have a sense of humor? Does he still find reasons to play music in the wee hours?

It sometimes occurs to me, as I jam away on my own proverbial accordions in dark moments, that he and I may share much in common. Even if we are different people, we probably worry about a lot of the same things.

Like me, he has experienced whatever it is that can compel strangers to briefly convene over some unspoken grief in forests. So, while I don’t know him at all, I think in a way I do know him a bit.

Note to readers • Eli McCann is an attorney, writer and podcaster in Salt Lake City, where he lives with his husband, new child and their two naughty (yet worshipped) dogs. You can find Eli on X, formerly known as Twitter, at @EliMcCann or at his personal website, www.itjustgetsstranger.com, where he tries to keep the swearing to a minimum so as not to upset his mother. This story is available to Tribune subscribers only. Thank you for supporting local journalism.