DAVID

Today I talked to David

This is the end of the afternoon. The streets are cooling down after a hot day, and the sun is slowly turning orange. I push the door of the Golden Bridge Yoga center. An electric Indian music fills up the almost empty space. I walk through the library-restaurant where two girls are eating pastries and talking over scented tea. On the other side of the shop, I see a spacious yoga studio. It is empty too, except for a man meditating on a mat. I pick up a book - Krishnamurti to Himself: His Last Journal - and read the back cover. A young man appears from behind a curtain. His blond curly hair is covered with a cloth. He wears thin metal-framed glasses, a long red apron, and red Adidas sneakers. We share a few words about my camera and I show him a picture I just took in the street. A woman passes by. We suspend our conversation. After a pause, he asks: "Hey, you want to take a picture of this?" He opens up a thick curtain that reveals a narrow kitchen. He enters and I follow him inside. "I'm making cinnamon rolls," he adds. I see flour spread on the table and dough in a metallic bowl.

His name is David. He works here as the assistant to the pastry chef and teaches yoga when he can. He loves to cook because it makes him feel more grounded. He tells me that he is aware that his thoughts are transmitted to the food while he is cooking. I notice a man sitting next to the curtain and wonder if he is listening to our conversation, but he seems mesmerized by his book. David grabs a rolling pin, removes the flour stuck on it, and rolls out the dough. I ask him how he got here. "A year ago I began to meditate and focus constantly my attention on working here. I wanted to cook vegan food and practice yoga at the same time. And it worked! I've been working here since December," he says with a sparkle in this smile. David's movements are harmonious and composed. He delicately spreads the cinnamon mixture all over the dough with a spatula and rolls up the dough into a long baguette. At that moment, a blond girl pops her head through the curtain and stares at us for a short moment. "Hi," says David. "Oh sorry," utters the girl. Her head disappears.

Initially David is from Portland, Maine. He was making sandwiches, working as a dishwasher seven days a week, and partying a lot when he realized his life needed a change. He began practicing yoga three to four hours a day. Then, he went to Esalen in Big Sur, California. In this center, people can learn and practice different spiritual arts, techniques, and therapies. David studied Kundalini yoga, meditation, shamanism and some martial arts during one year. "I miss my friends from Portland but that life wasn't healthy for me anymore," he says. He cuts the long roll into slices and creates a ball with each piece. Then he puts the balls on a translucent paper and starts all over again with a new piece of dough.

"As humans we have to evolve because initially we're hunters. When I meditate I feel part of the infinite, the ocean. I feel one. When you experience this, it makes you feel so small and humble. It changes you. Even if you experience it only once," he says. "I think this is why people do drugs. That's a way to experience the infinite. I tried this too. It worked a few times but it's not sustainable," he adds with a smile. Then he wipes his hands on his apron and turns towards me. "Today, I feel really blessed."

YEFIM & EDE

Today I talked to Yefim and Ede.

I am wandering around Plummer Park in West Hollywood. The place is lively and full of people. A young wavy-haired guy teaches a woman how to dance. She obviously didn’t move for a long time. Every movement she makes is unnatural and stiff. The guy doesn’t seem discouraged at all. He shows her the movements over and over again, and she imitates him. Further away two women talk while pushing swings with their toddlers in them. The children are so tiny that they look like soft puppets hanging on wires. The scene is really amusing. On the basketball field, a tall lonely man throws the ball and scores a basket.

I notice two men playing chess at a table. Ede is short and skinny. He looks about eighty years old and wears a green cap. His partner - Yefim – is taller, larger and wears a straw hat. They are very concentrated on the game and don’t seem to notice anyone around. I stand by their table for a while, trying to remember the basics of chess. Suddenly Yefim looks up at me. “Do you mind if I watch you play?” I ask. “No. Please sit,” he says and points out a spot next to him. I sit down.

It seems like they have been sitting here for hours. Their faces are burnt by the sun and their bodies are tight. They play on a leather chessboard. Four yellow straps hold it to the table. Each time one of them plays, he stops the chess clock. It counts the time separately for each move that each player makes. The surrounding noises don’t interfere with their intense concentration. They are both totally silent. All of a sudden Ede speaks. “Mate,” he says. The game is over. They remove the few remaining pieces from the base. I take advantage of the moment to jump in and ask a question. “Do you play here often?” I ask. “Every day. Two to three hours. Even Saturday and Sunday,” answers Yefim. Ede laughs. They bustle about putting the black and white pieces in position to start the game. It starts over again. I realize that my question time is short. So I better choose a good one.

I observe Yefim and Ede’s movements and try to follow their thinking. Both of them are quick and incredibly focused. Ede’s sharp eyes move to the left, to the right, up and down, as if following a scared mouse lost on the chess pad. His jaw trembles regularly from side to side. He seems to mumble and constantly evaluate the consequences of each move. On the contrary Yefim looks as quiet as a rock. His elbows are resting heavily on the wooden table. His stare is fixed but his feet and knees shake nervously. The game is over again. They remove the pieces in silence. “How long have you known each other?” I ask. Yefim answers first. “Sixteen years.” Ede adds: “I’ve been in this country for forty years. And I’ve know him since he’s arrived.” They speak like they play: quickly, with short sentences and always one after the other. “Where are you from?” I rush to ask one more question. “I’m from Odessa. And he’s from Hungary,” says Yefim. In a wink of an eye they place the pieces back on the chess pad, reset the clock, and start a new game.

Around them, life goes on. A tiny girl unwraps a bright yellow ice cream and squeals in excitement. Three middle-aged Russian ladies sitting close to us complain about their lazy relatives and seem happy to agree about everything. A girl in pink velvet pants walks her furry little dog and smiles to the child who wants to touch it.

Yefim and Ede don’t look around. They just play and play more. Their hands move so fast - taking a piece from here, moving it to there, then stopping the clock, and grabbing another piece again - that the action is impossible to follow. At a certain point they don’t bother counting the time anymore. More than an hour has passed. I feel the sun burning the left side of my body. Game over again. I give them a picture that I took of them as a present. Yefim is too preoccupied by the game he just lost to say anything. Ede gives me a warm and surprisingly firm handshake. His lively sharp eyes twinkle. “Tomorrow?” he asks and grabs a white piece to start the next game.