We played that game as soon as the pavement was dry. The remnants of winter, in the for of sharp and icy white snow turning dirty black in the end had disappeared along with the funny narrow spring streams.

Get your colorful chalk and draw the squares. Number them from one to ten. Find a small stone and start. Honestly, you can play alone, but what is the point if no one is watching?

Throw your stone onto a specific square, starting from one. Hop to get your pebble. Pick it up standing on one foot and jump back without losing your balance. Then you have to throw it into all the squares one by one forward and backward.

In some of the squares you have to land on two feet and turn around, jumping 180 degrees without messing up with borders.

The main challenges of the game were getting the pebble into the right square and jumping into it without stepping on a line.

Otherwise you will not advance to the next number and you will have to repeat your round again. If you hit all the squares first—you win the game.

You need a little bit of training to reach your goal of getting to a specific square. It takes precision and accuracy.

Hopscotch season springtime in every way. Flowers blooming. Shedding winter clothes. Rejuvenation. Anticipation of summer ease.

Honestly, you can play alone. But what is the pleasure of the game if you cannot share it?

I had a hopscotch partner. She lived in my building. She was a magical combination of beauty and an analytical brain. Long straight silvery hair with a touch of gold. Big blue eyes. Long smooth legs. Thin tender fingers with oval nails. We discussed how aristocrats had those kinds of fingers from playing music all day long. Proletarians, in a contrast, would have wide nails and short fingers from constant heavy work.

While we were playing, boys would circle around us with tape recorders attached to their bikes with loud popular songs intruding on the spring air. I feasted on that attention, but my friend was totally indifferent to it. Of course, we talked about those annoying boys, and I was surprised by her lack of interest in flirtation, love, romance.

Her family was considered connected and educated at the same time. Her grandfather was the director of the factory. Her grandma had strong connections in the food industry. She was a doctor who inspected the sanitary conditions of restaurants and other eating facilities. Grandma had access to goods that never reached regular people. “Deficit!”

Her mom was a pianist. She accompanied some famous opera singers or musicians performing in the Philharmonic.

Her father worked at the university. Somehow they all lived on the same floor in our building so as to be able to raise my friend together. I tried to explain her absence of interest in boys by the amount of love she got from within her family.

Even though we lived in the same apartment complex that had a school assigned to it, she went to a special school to learn English from the second grade on. I started in the fourth, but even then it was on a totally different level.

Her clothing was not the gray uniform-like outfit everyone else wore. To express her identity and uniqueness, the grandma sewed her cute overalls, fashionable shirts. Her parents had some connections with suppliers abroad in a time of firmly closed borders. And I was able to admire her jeans and bright sneakers for occasions from an early age.

She was materialized light of her family, both her parents and grandparents. She had an internal strength, with multiple talents in any area of interest.

Between tennis, music, and horseback riding lessons she had sunny spot of unstructured time to jump with me.

While jumping we discussed our futures in between pebble throws. I did not believe at that time in the importance of one’s family’s social class for lifelong happiness. I wanted to build my life on unconditional love. I envisioned a stormy romance as a foundation for happily ever after. I wanted to share my magical world with him. I wanted to show him my treasure box of beautiful places I had discovered on my own. Like jumping from boulder to boulder at the seaside of Finsky zaliv. The cracklings of leaves and acorns under my feet in the fall. To tell my favorite stories from books. Or just walk silently through the elegant streets of St. Petersburg or curving paths of parks while holding hands.

I brought up the proverb “You can have paradise in a tent with your love” as proof of my words.

My friend had read the same books, but she saw her future differently. The difference in our views was like night and day. She described her future husband as powerful and handsome at the same time. In contrast to my focus on pure feelings, she felt the importance of his ambitions and social and financial status. He would be the owner of very expensive car, a Volga, but would have a driver to drive him around. She talked about restaurants and yearly vacations to the Black Sea. Full China set Madonna. A crystal chandelier in the living room of her spacious apartment in the center of St. Petersburg. She even knew the building she wanted to live in with her husband: Dom Lidval. I expressed doubts over whether it would be possible because we had assigned apartments or rooms. But your dreams you have to deserve.

Since we went to different schools, I liked to discuss with my friend events from mine. Because of the firmly closed borders, at certain times we had a tremendous interest in the outside world. I brought something thought-provoking to share one day.

We had a boy in our class who was very unpredictable. He may have had mental issues, but it was not approached that way in those times. He was capable of just throwing something at a passerby in the cold from a balcony, of hitting someone without reason. There were a lot of complaints against him and fear of him. To cultivate a special relationship with the teacher and popularity with his classmates, his mother came to school with a lecture about India. She and her husband had been sent to India to help with some military project. The boy had been left behind. He might have been that way because he was upset at his parents for leaving him behind for the most lonely years of his life or for some other reasons unknown to us. His mom came to our lecture in a sari. She explained to us how to make the beautiful dress from piece of material by swirling it around. This magical process reminded me of the transformation of a butterfly into a chrysalis. In nature that process happened in reverse.

The boy’s mom explained about the caste system in India: the Brahmins (priestly people) at the top; the Rajanyas (rulers, administrator, warriors); the Vaishyas (artisans, merchants, tradesmen, and farmers); and the Shudras (working class). There were also people outside of caste’s scope: the fifth caste, the untouchables. Those mostly tribal people live below the poverty line and do not have access to education, healthcare, jobs, and so on.

How lucky we are in our country, where everyone is equal! And the son of a janitor can become the director of the theater. And he can become the General Secretary of the Communist Party. Women can fly into space.

The parents of an unrequited classmate were sent abroad to build a military facility. Representatives of the Communist party had been “washing their brains” from the inside out for several years. If there were still slanderous thoughts in their head, they would not cross the border of the vast Motherland.

Another sacred piece of information she dispensed to us was about reincarnation. The soul of living being starts a new life in a different physical form or body after biological death.

The most exciting thing about the Indian scheme is that after leaving for another world, you come back, but with a new perspective. Any bad behavior can lead you to life as a tree or worse. Good behavior, and an untouchable can turn into a Brahmin! And the innermost desires can come true.

Then, in the next life!

My friend was listening to my story with real interest. Only the reincarnation part made her doubt it. We had a lot of atheistic propaganda in school. And to prove my point I had to put on a vinyl record with the song of a very popular Russian singer. His name was Vladimir Vysotsky. His songs were truthful, just like everything he did.

Who believes in Mohammed,
Who in Allah, who in Jesus,
Who doesn’t believe in anything
Even in hell, to spite everyone.
Good religion
Invented by the Indians,
That we’re giving up
We’re not dying for good.

So you live as a janitor,
You’re born again as a foreman,
And then out of the foreman
You’ll grow into a minister.
But if you’re as dumb as a tree,
You will be born as a baobab
And you’ll be a baobab
Until you die for a thousand years.

A lot of changes happened in our life and the life of our country after our hopscotch tournaments. The borders were opened up. Instead of dreaming on a local level we started dreaming internationally.

My friend knew about the better future her family was trying to build for her. As a cliché of the 90s, she would have to get her education abroad, start her life there, preferably married to a prince. It did not have to be a prince literally, but someone from a high society family.

We both happened to meet in New York city. That is the magic of childhood friendships—you can start from any note and produce a beautiful melody together. From where you say goodbye one evening after a hopscotch tournament, after 10, 15, 35 years you just continue from that point.

Just like my friend’s family dreamed, she successfully got her education in an Ivy League school. She has an apartment on the Upper East Side. Just one part of those wishes was hard to program: to meet the prince.

How do you know what social layer you belong to in you new country?

If you move from another country, what should define you? The way you dress? The social gatherings you attend? Your passion for art galas and operas? The restaurants you choose for your meals?

Might it be your intellectual level? Your proud, straight posture? Or the way you hold your head high to display confidence and pride while walking through everyday challenges?

Or the school you attended? Camps you enjoyed during the summers of your childhood—do they define you?

What GPS system do you turn on to find the place to fit in a new country? What community you belong to?

It is not like hopscotch. Even with great precision, you might throw your stone to nowhere.

The easiest way would be the impressive price tag attached to your bag and your house. But even if you buy that property—it does not mean your neighbors will find a vacant space in their life for you. Those connections will take years to form.

Or just simply the church or mosque or synagogue you attend to have your spiritual balance and celebrate holy days? A community that is built around religious institutions?

Expensive vacations to luxurious resorts or to exotic countries you didn’t know existed before?

We discussed a variety of puzzles we were both unable to solve because of our newness to this country. But the most important question was where to find the prince.

My friend had an analytical brain. She was very strategic with every task she had in mind. To leave it up to chance was not her “cup of tea.”

Being from Russia it was natural for her to explore modern oligarchical society. Especially memorable was her philosophically artsy look at Courchevel, the ski resort in the French Alps—a “Mecca for showing off money” for the Russian and European elite.

A bottle of champagne with the biblical name Jerobeam for 2500 euro is a necessity of any lunch on a mountain. Instead of a ski lift you use helicopters to get to the top of the mountains. There are designer stores on slopes you can reach only by skiing. Just in case you feel the burning itch to change your image while carving the snow.

Huge crowds of people in ski outfits presented themselves without ski boots. Instead of heavy skiing footwear they were embellished with fur boots encrusted with diamonds . . . just to blend in.

Some skiers with skis added a Chanel crossbody purse to a silver-gold suit for the effect of dappled sunlight.

My friend felt like she was in a bizarre art museum. She found tons of symbolism there related to the exhibition of power and fluidity of money. My friend mentioned to me Salvador Dali sculptures on the slopes and in a Village of Courchevel 1850. Melting clocks were everywhere, a simultaneous representation of the hardness and softness of time. It can be a different message for different people. Some just see the reminder to buy an expensive watch. More intellectual ones sense the fluidity of time melting so quickly, like Camembert cheese. Live in the present, get as much pleasure as possible.

I asked her about potential princes there. She told me about Cinderella’s crystal carriage on the main square next to Hermes. She observed the abundance of beautiful, well-groomed girls in blue, red, and green fur coats. They arrived at Courchevel with the same goal: get the prince with a private plane on the slopes. The carriage is for them. Unfortunately, she did not learn about any who became princesses that way. The majority of them became abandoned Halloween pumpkins after promising nights.

Another part she did not understand was the meaning of life there. The community just moved from Courchevel to St. Bart’s to Nice. The conversations were only about relaxation. Drugs, parties, alcohol. If you do anything else—you do not belong there. After skiing you have to prepare the yacht and so forth.

There were a lot of men who would have died for my friend’s attention. But there was always a “but.”

The diversity of our immigration had positive and negative sides. Some men were not accomplished financially, some did not have a broad spectrum of interests. Some were so assimilated that she had to share the bill with them. That made the idea of continuing an obvious no-no.

She gave a chance to the aboriginals—the Americans. Some did not have table manners. She told me about her date in Le Bernardin. He brought my friend there to celebrate her birthday. He made the reservation a month in advance. He was really trying. But the table he chose was not a table she preferred to sit at. The last straw was when her suitor ordered the main course—poached halibut, razor clams Aki Nori and “sweet corn chowder.” It had such a beautiful presentation, the play of geometric shapes and colors surrounded by a jellied ring of sauce. Upon its arrival he took his fork, mashed it into a puree, mixed it together, and ate it up. My friend got up and left. She felt very humiliated after such a food torture. A piece of art was ruined by a barbarian.

She asked me if I knew that one’s behavior with food reflects one’s behavior in bed.

Imagine what he does there.

Another wonderful episode in a restaurant was when a man started licking his fingers after a delicious meal.

People she liked required so much adaptation from her, molding her into something she was not designed for. She was already practically perfect in every way, just like Mary Poppins.

At a certain point she lost all hope of meeting her other half. Philosophically speaking, she felt complete as she was. Financially, she could support herself easily.

To share her interests, she has a group of friends who like to spend their time in the same fashion. She doesn’t have to change anyone’s opinion of activities she enjoys.

Spiritually, every psychologist is talking about love of yourself. That love was present to begin with in her, but her family supported that love as well.

Deep down we all have hopes, and miracles are possible.

An Indian prince fell in love with my friend right on the tennis court. She played well, but swift movements and short skirts are an absolute charm. My friend had planned to have a rendezvous there with someone else. Her potential date had called and informed her about the price of the court for an hour. I guess he wanted to split the fee, just to be safe, in case of an unsuccessful engagement. My friend got upset and went to play by herself.

The Prince (we called him that) played very well. He had taken a lot of different lessons during his childhood. He was from the Brahmin caste. But he grew up in a Maharaja palace due to family position in the region.

During brief water breaks and between sets he told her about himself.

He captivated my friend with stories about stone-lace palaces with multiple arches, Mughal windows of ancient temples.

After tennis they continued walking through the streets of Manhattan and just talking nonstop. At one point his stories become so vivid that she started to sense the smell of curry in the air.

My friend perceived a union of souls like she had never felt before. Emotions were my department. Contrary to rules, exceptions happen.

The Prince was talking about polo matches on elephants. About white monasteries in mountains with carved stone walls. Most of those carvings were devoted to Kama Sutra scenes.

About naked Jain people who get their energy from the sun and eat only the part of plants above the ground. Jain people never disturb the bee to take its honey.

Huge bee hives attached to monastery walls the size of his hands joined in a circle of the biggest hug. He demonstrated the size of the enormous circle. My friend detected a special warmth dissipating from the Prince. He talked about bees dancing in the air, communicating information with their butt movements.

The Prince talked about his travel by private plane. He had a driver waiting for him around the tennis court.

About how his grandfather and his royal friends used to hunt lions in the jungles. His palace living room in India was covered with animal skin rugs as hunting trophies.

He invited her to join him for dinner the same evening. My friend was aware that you have to reserve that particular place four months in advance. Seems like the Prince was entitled to royal treatment in New York as well.

My friend had a burning desire to refuse. She knew about the theory of “playing hard to get.” But the invitation sounded so sincere that she canceled her plans and accepted.

The Prince offered to pick her up at her place. He was waiting in his car when she appeared at the entrance of her building. He left the car and opened the door for her. Upon arrival at restaurant he opened the door and offered her his hand to help her out of the car.

The Prince knew the etiquette of courtship very well.

In addition to his encyclopedic knowledge about everything, he impressed my friend with an appreciation of Russian classical music. He hummed for her Mussorgsky’s “Great Gate of Kiev” from Pictures at an Exhibition. He knew Chekhov’s short stories. He adored “Lady with the Dog” for its poignant sadness and light hopefulness at the same time.

He accompanied my friend to her building without pushing for coffee in her apartment.

It was just a majestic day.

The next morning she received a huge bouquet of red roses in her building and a note of admiration on her phone.

The Prince asked her for another date.

She felt she had encountered someone who was her equal. Somebody she could share her life with.

Dazzling smile. Light brown skin. Long fingers with a professional manicure.

He was absolutely elegant and handsome. The Prince was waiting for her at the door of another exclusive place. Just like he knew her taste.

This time he talked about his difficult fate.

Marriages in India are arranged by agreement between families. You come home from America, and your fate is waiting for you in a wedding dress. Tables are set. Guests are at the assembly. The union of souls is determined by centuries-old caste traditions.

He talked about modern love and old-fashioned rules. He was trying to rebel against his parents’ arrangement. But his father explained to him that these traditions were fundamental for thousands of years. This system had worked for all previous generations of his family. His bride was chosen not only because of the position of her family but by astrologists. The stars had to be in a certain combination for the bride and groom. A very sophisticated prediction was made based on date and time of birth. Movements of the planets for that system define your purpose in life, your karma and good destiny together with your partner.

He did not have a choice, and he married his wife without any desire, just for the sake of family obligations.

Living in a free country, he had always dreamed of experiencing love. According to the recommendations of his friends, the girls from the former Soviet Union ideally suited the role of love. They differed from Indian girls by their white skin and inner strength.

He confessed his feelings towards my friend. To support his point, he told her a beautiful legend of one of the seven new wonders of the world, the Taj Mahal. The Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan was madly in love with his third wife. The two previous ones were just to warm up. And the third one accompanied him everywhere. They adored each other and had mutual interests.

She was the best advisor in tactical and strategic dilemmas on the battlefield. During her free time she played chess with the emperor. (Girls, I recommend that you excel at chess—it will help you become queens.) In matters of love, she had no equal. Sadly, love played a tragic role in her life, and she died during the birth of her fourteenth child.

The emperor swore on her deathbed to build a monument to their love. He envisioned something not comparable to anything that had existed in the world before. Gems for the inlay of marble slabs throughout the palace were imported from different countries. The most skilled masons and architects were invited from all over the world. He promised to his beloved that there would be no such thing anywhere and kept his word. After the end of the project, the brutal grieving emperor cut off everyone’s hands so that they would not build anything like it.

Modern society, unfortunately, does not allow you to have another wife. But the Prince said he was absolutely serious about his feelings towards my friend. With her he could talk to someone who would share his intellectual interests. Understanding was missing from his marriage. His wife had grown up in India. New York seemed like a dangerous place to her. Family life was not fun for the Prince according to his story.

For my friend his difficult fate of a prearranged marriage was the absolute end of her dreams and hopes for the Prince. She did not want to waste her time. She was happy in her stable ambiguity without adventures. She did not want a secondary role. She was designed for Prima. I said it might be unconditional love, which is so rare in the modern world.

My friend never believed in love. She never experienced that feeling towards any man in her life. Her criterion was whether they fit into her life or not.

Her mom’s opinion was the cornerstone of my friend’s life, and she would not dare to even tell her about the Prince’s offer. Her beloved late grandmother would turn in her coffin if she found out.

In contrast to the Prince’s negative opinion of prearranged marriage, my friend and I discussed it from our point of view. Without any torturous choices to make, you could meet your destiny. Someone from your class. Your parents and family would do all the work for you. Just show up at the wedding and look pretty.

Just like the hopscotch game, my friend put her stones on all the correct numbers. But why after taking all the right steps, do you end up in places you do not belong, just like Alice in Wonderland?

The Prince did not forget about my friend.

The besieging of the fortress continued. He wrote to her from time to time. One day upon leaving her building he met her with bouquet of long-stem roses. He told her that he could not forget her and asked her to give him a chance.

My friend was very compassionate in the face of such great feeling. On the basis of her knowledge about reincarnation she said:

“Do not worry—in the next life we can be together.”

But the Prince said, “I have already promised my wife. In the next and subsequent lives I will be with my wife. And you and I can only be lovers. Nothing will change in the next life—so agree now.