The Story He Tells
Once I was Igor. A business in Moscow. An apartment with a view of the ring road. A wife who wanted Paris. Me — I wanted something else. She wanted renovation. We separated.
I sold what was left, packed a backpack, and left. Thailand first. Forty days of meditation. Then India, an ashram where the guru took my money and left before I did. Then Laos, where the monks did not speak English and did not need to.
Laos. Cambodia. Vietnam. Hong Kong. Somewhere in there I stopped counting countries and started counting bottles. That, I think, was when I started becoming Garry.
I came to California to visit a friend. The friend moved. I stayed. I am still here, or there, or somewhere in between. I am not searching anymore. I found what I was looking for. I just cannot remember where I put it.