My Trip to Paradise
(or somewhere very close to it)

Leaving Texas

The Fall crawled into Austin a month ago. Air became thin and clear. Leaves were gone and tree branches did not hide the Tower any more. A grey Mitsubishi drops me in front of the Continental Airlines terminal. After quick progress in a long line, I finally reach the counter. Boarding pass for Houston, boarding pass for San Jose, "No", "Yes". A sudden remark "Yup... returning home, to San Jose" from an American soldier who is checking in to the right from me catches my attention. This skinny short guy does not look Costa Rican to me. The confusion is resolved in Houston: my plane takes off to Costa Rica five minutes after another one left for San Jose, California. Not later than the Boeing spreads its wings over the Mexican Gulf, I feel as if I were in the tropics already. Like jungle birds, teenagers occupying the tail section react to every insignificant development with explosions of shouts and noise. We pass Belize, and now magnificent mountains do not stop to take my breath away. The plane dives into the cup of a beautiful valley.

Welcome to Costa Rica

Green walls of volcanos rise into the sky. The red roofs of houses and white patches of cemeteries come closer. We make a thrilling turn on a low altitude and peacefully land in Juan Santamaria International Airport.

Strange Place Indeed

My hammer-and-sickle passport and absence of a visa do not cause any delays. A yellow line leads me through the customs to a crowd waiting for arriving passengers. I immediately see the familiar face hovering over the human wall. Peter Gorinsky, my host and almost uncle, helps me to load my suitcase to his Toyota van, and we are off into the exciting world of Costa Rica.

The heat worth of the Texan summer does not keep me from absorbing the stream of new impressions.

Pirate Sergey with parrot Barbara

Although roads are narrow and in a rather bad condition, Costa Ricans like fast and risky driving and are not extremely concerned about following traffic rules. The road death rate is one of the highest in the world but it seems like Costa Ricans take this fact in stride. We do not have wait for long to discover the first accident: a motorcycle lies in the middle of the street with rice and beans scattered around from an opened microwave-safe container; the heros of the event await police on a sidewalk and merrily laugh shaking traditional mustaches and shiny caps of black hair. We arrive to a supermarket in Escazu and park in front of a huge guard armed with an automatic rifle. The frightening weapon is the first sign of the theft scale in this country. Stealing is a natural part of life and is perhaps inherited from ancestor pirates.

The supermarket resembles its American peers but the selection of fruits and vegetables is richer. Besides, an employee observes the aisles from up high to prevent shoplifting. A boy pushes a cart with our purchases and loads them into the Toyota. Before leaving, we give a hundred-colon banknote to the guard for keeping an eye on our car. Colon is a local currency. Its exchange rate is about 250 colones for one US dollar now. On a historical note, Colon is the Spanish name of Christopher Columbus.

Costa Ricans call themselves Ticos (Tico is a name for a man) and Ticas (women). If my Indian friend would be here, he would conclude that Ticas are hot. I guess that such a description would be quite appropriate.

Two friendly monsters

Though I cannot clearly explain what exactly a difference between 'hot' and 'beautiful' is. Anyhow, local women definitely do not leave men's hearts in peace. Many foreigners I met in Costa Rica parted with their previous halves to marry a Tica. Since those guys were rather affluent and nontrivial, their choice means something. Actually, it is easy to understand them when one sees a young Tica (T-shirt jammed with impressive breasts, jeans tightly wrap round hips) walking down a street. In addition, Costa Rican women are known to be well educated and subtle. If you are a frustrated bachelor and are calling to your travel agent already, let me give you a hint - Ticas love sweet lemons.

Costa Ricans defend their houses by fences of all types: concrete walls, grids of metallic bars, or just barbwire spanning wooden sticks. Next to almost each entrance gate, there is a one-meter pole with a metallic basket on its top. The basket is used for garbage disposal and is lifted up in the air to protect the contents of trash bags from dogs and other animals. Sidewalks are rare, and vehicles share roads with pedestrians. Two-way streets are barely wide to allow two cars to avoid a collision. Bridges are even narrower. Before entering a bridge, one has to make sure that nobody is already driving on the bridge in the opposite direction. Many newcomers have no idea about this order of things. As a result, cars rented by tourists make an additional contribution to accident statistics.

I remember the excitement of my Taiwanese friend when he talked about White Nights in northern Russia. He could not imagine how it is possible to live with sun staying in the sky all the time around the clock. I feel somewhat similarly when I find out that Costa Rican streets do not bear names. Actually, the government tries from time to time to introduce the names (for example, Avenidas and Calles in central San Jose) but the population is not willing to embrace the new system and uses addresses created by providing directions from local landmarks such as a church or a bar. Under these circumstances, mail service operates mainly through boxes at post offices. At the same time, a letter addressed to "Don Pedro, 300 meters uphill from the cemetery" will probably be delivered to its destination (when postal workers will get tired of keeping the letter in their office).

Finca Inshallah and its inhabitants

Our Toyota loaded with food and my luggage climbs through San Antonio section of Escazu and finally brings us to the gate of Finca Inshallah. A shadowy alley filled with murmur of palm trees leads to a one-floor house drowning in the magnificence of a tropical garden. Flowers of all shapes and colors cover the ground, trees, and bushes. Banana bunches and tennis balls of oranges are stirred by a light breeze. San Jose prostrates its hot white body in all its beauty on the bottom of the valley. I look down at the city and surrounding volcanos in awe while joyfully inhaling cool and pleasant mountain air. We are met by Shemo, a huge dumb friendly Akita dog, and Barbara, a talkative yellow-naped amazon parrot. Apart from a Nicaraguan teenager Ishmael taking care of the house, Finca is infested with plenty of other creatures. I have not seen so many and so different spiders before (as a matter of fact, I had close encounters with two tarantulas during my stay). One day, Peter's gardener killed a tiny but lethally dangerous coral snake hiding in a flower-bed. Besides, there is no lack of cuter beings such as lizards and butterflies. Costa Rica dives into darkness. Wind becomes stronger but cannot smother the orchestra of insects. Charmed by this music, squirrels and rats start their wild dances on our roof. I step outside and watch the valley transformed into a soft vibrating sea of yellow and blue lights.

The Mosquito Coast

The morning is bright and chilly. A white van visits our mountain shelter to take Peter Gorinsky and me to San Jose. When we arrive to Amstel Amon Hotel, our companions are not ready yet. Peter and the driver drink coffee in the lobby while I wander around and try to form my opinion about this city of shabby short houses. The elevator finally delivers Peter's clients - King Robin, Queen Nidia, and Princesses Dominic and Natalie. The city comes alive. We drive through a sector called Coca-Cola. Thieves sell their trophies here, and police does not interfere with this business. Even if you discover your favorite tie stolen some time ago (it happened once with Peter), policemen will not undertake anything until the suspect will leave the area.

We arrive to a small airport in Pavas. When bags and fishing rods are loaded into a six-passenger plane, I take the co-pilot seat. Air politely lifts the craft towards the white rings of clouds hugging the solemn green mountains. Houses, roads, rivers swim slowly under our wings. We escape from San Jose valley. Volcano Turrialba raising its peak over a soft white blanket of moisture is left behind.

The airport in Barra del Colorado

The flat surface below shows less and less signs of civilization. Soon, the only thing one can see is the tops of trees fiercely competing for a place under the tropical sun. The plane descends to brown rivers and Caribbean seashore with a corpse of a beached trawler boat. The wheels softly touch the black airstrip of Barra del Colorado, a village hiding its small houses under coconut trees. This paradise, accessible only by plane or boat, rewards us with a typical Costa Rican breakfast: scrambled eggs and a violet mix of rice and beans. Local children with an inquiring fire in their eyes quickly find a common language with our princesses. Though just five-year old, blonde Natalie feels comfortable in every company and makes her ten-year-old dark-haired sister Dominic look shy. After Natalie crowns me with her red cap, our team boards a narrow long boat 'Sukia' equipped with a motor, windshield, and flat roof. We go up Rio Colorado. Boats become rare, and finally we share the river only with a 'Melanie' occupied with three Latinos and a young black woman who is dressed smartly in back and white. The captain of the 'Melanie' cannot accept inferiority of its engine. He constantly crosses our way and makes our boat jump on yellow waves. This challenge does not bother the calm captain of the 'Sukia' but Robin's blood starts to boil with revenge. The river branches its waters. The 'Melanie' goes to the left, we go to the right. When the island is past, King Robin cheers: our competitors are far behind now.

We slow down near a wooden house. It is a control point on the Costa Rican border. After a brief verbal exchange with a muscular guy in khaki, we cross the river. A Nicaraguan border guard browses through a paper shown by our captain, and Rio San Juan leads the 'Sukia' back to the Caribbean sea. Here and there, strange constructions covered by grey dry leaves look at us from the banks. We wave to the inhabitants, mostly children and women, and proceed between jungle walls rich with all shades of green. Fauna does not wish to loose to flora in diversity. Hot air is filled with toucans, egrets, kingfishers, and many other birds that I have never seen before. Huge iguanas relax on tree branches in close neighborhood with spider monkeys. Crocodiles are annoyed by our motor and rush into murky water.

The 'Rain Goddess' reigns Rio Indio

Rio San Juan arrives to its mouth where lips of brown sand protect a peaceful lagoon from Caribbean waves. Our expedition speeds into Rio Indio and discovers the 'Rain Goddess', a marvelous two-floor houseboat anchored in the middle of the maroon river. Before invading this cozy oasis of civilization, we pay a short visit to a control post on the bank. The adjacent village San Juan del Norte is more famous as Greytown. During the times when the village lay on a path of gold carried to Europe, Greytown was a frequent victim of pirates.

The 'Rain Goddess' hails us by a delicious lunch on a terrace of the second floor. Refreshed by vanilla-orchid juice, our team boards a boat crowned with a row of fishing rods. We return to the boundary of fresh and salt waters where sea fish feed on smaller creatures.

My first fish in Nicaragua

My rod immediately shrieks and bends. After an eternity of reeling and unreeling, a shiny body emerges from dark depths. A huge jack, the largest fish I have ever caught, is finally lifted into the boat. We take pictures and allow the green monster to return to its wet domains. Before my exhausted hand regains its feelings, King Robin hooks a snook and brings it into the boat. Caribbean waves push our vessel back to the lagoon. A black gang of ashamedly stooping vultures gloomily witnesses how we catch another jack. Our team lands on a beach. While I am still trying to overcome a surprise of seeing brown sand for the first time in my life, Robin and Nidia cast into the sea. An enormous tarpon picks the lure of the Queen but manages to get away after jumping over dark waves. The sun disappears behind the green wall of palm trees. Mosquitos are ready for their bloody hunt. We return to the 'Rain Goddess'. The Christmas dinner starring lobsters and fried snook is served in the living room. Peter entertains the guests by his amazing stories while the TV screen flashes with deeds of Stallone. I climb on the boat roof and stare at the glowing infinity of tropical stars. The night is filled with endless explosions of fireworks - the village celebrates the birthday of Christ.

Innocencio, a Rama Indian, joins our team the next morning.

Peter and Robin

Two boats carry us upstream into Fish Creek. Water here is darker but more transparent than in Rio Indio. Peter Gorinsky gives Robin lessons on flyfishing. Following the orders of Peter's hand, the fly softly parachutes on the water in the shade of murmuring trees. Like submarines, mojarras slowly emerge towards the the surface and freeze just under the peaceful lure. Satisfied with what it sees, one of them suddenly attacks and engages in a hopeless fight with a strong line. King Robin is a capable student. His casts soon start to resemble Peter's flyfishing art. One after another, mojarras, blue with a touch of red, visit our boat to be photographed. I dive into warm black water. After some hesitation, the princesses follow my example. I leave my companions and swim upstream. Sad eyes observe me from the bank. A jaguar puffs at his pipe (you are allowed not to trust me on this account), smiles, and disappears in the jungles. Many days will pass before this green corridor will see another human being. I return, and our boats head to the 'Rain Goddess'. We find our base in the midst of the continuing Christmas celebration. Motor boats circle around the 'Rain Goddess' on their way from the village to the beach shaken by reggae. While waiting for lunch, Robin hooks a large machaca right from the houseboat. We spend the afternoon catching fat snook in Rio San Juan.

Innocencio and Sergey

The sunset invites the fishermen back to the base. The dinner rewards us with meat of wild pigs and ornaments of Peter's stories. At nine o'clock, the river starts to seethe under the lid of the star dome - attracted by the lights from the 'Rain Goddess', large fishes jump around in a powerful dance.

The next morning finds us on Rio San Juan where we catch plenty of snook. After the breakfast, Peter leads an expedition into internal parts of Nicaragua. Our goal is a big lake rich with tarpon. Unexplored territories begin when our boats crawl from Rio San Juan into a narrow river. Jungles create a natural corridor with green walls rising to the blue sky. Picturesque birds are frightened by the engines and flee in panic. We cross a lagoon and sail through an enchanted forest where a quick stream rushes its unusually transparent waters around mighty trees. Another serene river. Logs impede our progress. We use paddles and machete to clear the way. Finally, a narrow passage is completely covered by grass. Our engines fail to overcome the power of the plants. We decide to turn back. Trolling in the lagoon presents me with a decent snook. We fasten our boats inside the enchanted forest. All except Peter and the Indian guide Haime jump into the fast waters. After the swimming, we eat fruits and sandwiches. A school of agile specks accepts a piece of bread with enthusiasm. This commotion attracts more serious fish, and Robin easily catches a machaca. We continue our adventures by fishing and adoring the pristine wilderness.

Sunset fishing

Peter spots a jaguar crossing the river. Provoked by our imitations, howler-monkeys fill out the jungles with loud complaints. We return to the Caribbean sea. The girls, Nidia, Haime, and I invade the beach while Peter and Robin decide to fish from their boat. Villagers hurry home with caught lobsters and "square groupers" (containers with drugs dropped in the sea by Colombian ships). The tired sun approaches the vertices of palm trees. I could never imagine that a combination of green and brown colors could be so magnificent. Casting from the beach, Haime hooks a huge snook but the beast jumps and escapes. Nevertheless, the last moments of our Nicaraguan fishing are rewarding: King Robin lands even a larger snook. A nice end of the great trip. The dinner is shared with newcomers who will enjoy the 'Rain Goddess' after our departure.

Back to Civilization

Early in the morning, the 'Sukia' carries us up Rio San Juan to Costa Rica. The familiar way seems much longer. Barra del Colorado meets our expedition with a multitude of boats and people. After these three days in Nicaragua, the village resembles a bustling center of the civilized world. A waiting airplane takes off and delivers us smoothly and safely to Pavas. It is time to part with King Robin, Queen Nidia, and the princesses. After a brief but emotional farewell, the royal family flies to Drake Bay to continue their vacation on the Pacific coast. Peter and I occupy the same white van which drives us to peaceful Finca Inshallah. When we arrive, boy Ishmael notifies that he is late for a ferry to his island. As soon as Ishmael receives his pay, he immediately disappears. The house did not see much care during our absence. The refrigerators are empty. Peter's irritation explodes in anger when we discover that Ishmael dared to drive the car and smashed the Toyota into the gate which cannot be properly closed anymore. The damage to the concrete bridge indicates the power of the impact. The busted tire was replaced by a spare and was carefully hidden behind the back seat. I guess that this is a moment when Peter starts to have his heart problems. When two days later we leave for fishing in a trout farm, Peter forgets his medicine at home. Many hours of driving on terrible Costa Rican roads pay heavy toll. Pain fastens its chains around Peter's heart. After a week of resistance, Peter capitulates and decides to see a doctor. His stay in a hospital and followed recovery at home cancelled many planned trips. On the other hand, it gave me a chance to see the country and its people from a new perspective.

Trout Hunt

The mentioned quest for trout started after the breakfast served by Jerry, a replacement for Ishmael. The persistently lively Toyota brought Peter and me to a large villa populated with many creatures including an amazing couple of pesote. Edward, the lord of the domains, headed for a hotel to pick up our Jamaican companions while Peter, me, and Edward's daughter Ana left Escazu in a new GMC truck.

Costa Rica

Our progress was slowed down by a bicycle race which flooded the highway on this last Sunday of 1997. The van with the Jamaicans appeared in our rear-view mirror equipped with an electronic compass. We passed through the former capital Cartago. Its beautiful church was a rare exception from bleak Costa Rican architecture. Serpentine roads writhed on green mountains and spanned deep steep cliffs cut in the rock by fast creeks. We stopped to take pictures of a beautiful valley - that was how my imagination showed me Italy.

A rainbow victim

Our cars continued their way between coffee plantations and finally crawled up an unpaved path to the destination. The whole farm consisted of few small ponds and houses built around a brook rushing down a mountain slope. Thrilling spotty bodies pervaded clear shallow water. Hungry rainbow trout immediately attacked our lures and powerfully fought with the lines. In spite of a similarity with fishing in a bathtub, this activity gave an apparent pleasure to all anglers. Farmers weighed caught trophies and brought them into a cooking condition. Some of the hapless fishes were immediately barbecued and eaten. The others ended their existence in coolers. On the way back, our expedition had dinner in a restaurant lying on a bank of a picturesque river. We returned to Escazu when the night took over the country.

After a short rest, our group packed the white van of the Jamaicans and drove to Zapote. A fiesta conquered this part of San Jose until the beginning of January. The spacious fairground was flooded by crowds of mostly young people constantly moving among amusements, gambling tables, pavilions packed with dancers, and booths selling food and drinks. In the middle of this whirl, a bullfight arena raised its steel walls. Endless fireworks lightened a helicopter circling in the black skies. Pictures sent by its television cameras to many viewers around Central America did not vary much from hour to hour and from day to day: a ring spread with merry volunteers who teased an infuriated bull. Rare successful attacks of a poor mighty animal did not seem to concern anybody. Even unlucky victims tried to leave the arena with smiles on their faces. When the bull got tired, he was replaced by a new sufferer. There was no lack in human participants.

Peter's Friends

Peter's friends is a dangerous topic because I will never end my writing if I will engage in describing all picturesque buddies of my host. There was an old Dutch baron leaving with his Tica wife for a four-month drive around South America. There were Helen and Eric, a British artist and her husband from Colorado. There was Martin, an Englishman with a strong Australian accent, who went to Solentiname islands and almost killed cunning Ishmael. Resembling a mafia boss, Edward and his numerous family are the subject of many unbelievable stories. Then there was Karl Marx who was neither excited nor annoyed by having such a name...

On New Year eve, Peter drove me to the Escazu house of Clarence and Cicely, his Guyanese compatriots. Clarence is a Black intellectual and a really nice man.

Happy New Year of 1998

His wife Cicely is Indian (this word appears here in its original meaning). The unusual dwelling was abundantly decorated with fantastic African art. The other guests - a plump talkative Black-Guyanese woman with her White-Canadian husband and a Black lady form Jamaica - had already arrived. Soon, the company gathered around a table crowned with a tropical New Year dinner. Light breeze sneaked through an opened window and filled the room with the warm breadth of the Central valley. The night consumed an effortless stream of funny jokes and mindboggling memories. I sat surrounded by these wonderful people and wondered whether the whole world would ever be such a peaceful and friendly place where our differences would be not a reason for mutual hatred but an incentive for learning and self-improvement.

White-Water Rafting

1998 started harshly. Peter was imprisoned by Clinica Biblica which, in spite of its comical name, was the best private hospital in the country. Once when I was chatting with my resilient patient, a visitor entered the ward. That was Maurice, a son of Karl Marx. Those days the youth of his family entertained their Guyanese-Chinese cousin who just arrived from Toronto. The program included white-water rafting on pristine Pacuare river. Taking Peter's advice, I agreed to become the sixth member of Maurice's team and, on the next morning, joined Marxes on a bus of company Rios Tropicales. When the expedition reached foggy Cartago, our guide enriched me with the second explanation why instead of restoring the old church, the city had decided to erect its wonderful new one. After an all-you-can-eat breakfast in a small restaurant, we spend about two more hours driving on narrow winding roads and stopped only once - to stare at a sloth hanging from a bare branch. Upon arrival, the tourists were equipped with helmets, vests, and paddles. Given safety instructions and a view of rushing Pacuare river evaporated the relaxed mood of many. After the crews met their guides, the yellow and blue chain of nine boats began its four-hour adventure along a route of the third level of difficulty. My raft led the descent through the thrill of the first rapid. Some of our followers were not as organized and lucky as our young team, and we had a pleasure to witness flying humans forcefully ejected from their inflated boats. Two guides on swift kayaks helped us to fish these red-vest yellow-helmet bodies out of the boiling stream. One of the 'swimmers' was apparently frightened out of her senses. After some crying on a bank, she joined her team but their boat continued the trip in a safe and boring mode. At the same time, our guide Douglas quickly detected the abilities of our strong crew and willingly introduced additional excitements.

The last rapids

Once he asked the left-side paddlers to turn around, and our raft crazily revolved while flying over a rapid. At the end of another rapid, Douglas directed our vessel to a huge stone. As a result, the deformed body of the inflated boat catapulted four of us into deep safe water.

Meanwhile, Pacuare river was absolutely beautiful. Its emerald stream rushed between rocky walls covered by green tropical trees. Gorgeous waterfalls descended from a great height. The expedition stopped for lunch near one of them. While the guides were making sandwiches and cutting fruits, I frolicked in a small pool created on the beach by the waterfall. I threw my T-shirt, and the current brought it back. Finally, the waterfall gulped the T-shirt without any desire to return it. After ten minutes of searching in marvelous (though not transparent) water, I was ready to give up. But the shirt itself found me - it playfully wrapped around my foot. The rest of the trip went in a similar merry fashion. Douglas led us to a place where a rapid pressed the raft to a rock which poured gallons of cool water on our heads. The river provided two calm stretches rewarding us with peaceful swimming. Once our boat was left without a guide - Douglas was washed away when we passed under a waterfall. After eighteen miles of untouched jungles, the rafters discovered civilization. The buses with our belongings met the tourists near a highway bridge. A monotonous drive delivered the tired travelers into the night of San Jose.

Volcano Poas

Released from the hospital, Peter Gorinsky did not permit his heart to rest. Even though he was literally dying on Thursday after skipping his medicine, Peter had no intentions to cancel our Friday trip to volcano Poas. When the morning sun started to warm the valley, I drove the poor blue Toyota down to Escazu...

At first sight, driving on slow Costa Rican roads infested with pedestrians, bicyclists, and an incredible amount of public buses does not seem too dangerous. This impression is wrong. Heavy damaged pavements require your constant tense attention. Besides, you should watch for vehicles moving in the opposite direction. Escaping from a hole, an approaching car can suddenly swing on your side of the narrow road. Poles and deep ditches patiently wait for a victim on the edge of the roadway. Local disrespect to red lights, abrupt turns, lack of traffic signs. The list of dangers can be continued. Actually, the largest of them is nice roads: when your concentration weakens and the speed grows, you discover constellations of pitfalls right under your nose...

A somewhat similar sequence of thoughts sailed through my mind after our van crossed a narrow bridge spanning a deep cliff. This bridge appeared without any warning when I was fighting with a sharp turn of the road winding on a mountain slope. The bridge did not have any barriers on its sides. Perhaps, its constructors wanted to give travelers a chance to see the creek rushing somewhere below.

Volcano Poas

Finally, we arrived at the top of my first volcano. The active crater was magnificent. Its cup, one mile in diameter, hid an acid lake on the bottom. The emerald surface of the lake squeezed an abundantly steaming yellow spot of sulphur. Even at the height of the observation deck, the lungs of tourists were filled with irritating hydrogen sulphide. A path in the jungles carried me to Lagoon Botos. This passive crater of volcano Poas had turned into a peaceful lake surrounded by a ring of tropical trees. The return to Finca Inshallah was slow. After a lunch at a farmer's house, we descended into the hot Central valley, repaired the tire busted by Ishmael in a town with the provoking name Alajuela, and visited Peter's friend in Santa Ana. By the time we arrived to our villa, the day had died.

Epilogue

I would be able to say much more about those three weeks in Central America but I am not sure that you are still awake. I myself slept a lot before I managed to get to this point of my story. Though if this travelogue entertained you and planted a desire to hear more, tell me so. My e-mail address is gorinsky@arl.wustl.edu . Actually, write me regardless. I always wish to know whether there existed creatures who came and spent some time in my remote corner of the Web.

A couple of concluding words about Peter Gorinsky. He is not a myth. Moreover, you can send him e-mail. If you plan to visit the tropics, it is difficult to find a better guide and flyfisherman than Peter. No matter whether you come to catch a marlin, to enjoy a view of jumping tarpon, or to watch exotic birds and crocodiles in pristine wilderness of jungles, Peter Gorinsky will provide you with the most professional assistance. Besides, you will meet as strangers but will part as friends. You will return home enriched with enormous knowledge and unbelievable stories of the person who skied with the Pope John Paul II, contributed to the turmoil of the Guyanese revolution, attended the first London concert of 'The Beatles', met the British royal family, knew Picasso, Tolkien, and many other amazing people.

Sergey Gorinsky

January 29, 1998

Austin, Texas, USA