I took a snapshot of this old man as I was walking one morning, maybe afternoon on one of Yalta's sea fronts... it was sometime back in 2001. We were there by chance, a big group gathered together to spend no other than the New Years, in Russia's most famous summer resort. Those memories are imprinted within my mind. It was a great time, full of freedom and an air of possibility around us. That same year, that same month, I was saying good bye to my mum and my sister as they were moving to the far shores of the United States. Somehow this man, this lonely old man captured the melody which cried within me at the time. I didn't say hello. I should have.
The trainers came later. Much later. In fact, to some degree, they have made him into a mockery, but to be honest, it could have been him, in an old pair of trainers. Borrowed from his grandson, or maybe found in some neighbouring alley. There are so many hidden paths in Yalta.
So much poverty, yet lots of laughter.
