To Russia With Love

My father, Virgil, holding me in Central Park, NYC, during Spring, 1943.
My father, Virgil, holding me in Central Park, NYC, during Spring, 1943.

Of all the people who visit my website, I never could have perceived one place where Google Analytics reports all my blathering and posturing is being consumed and afterward complimented.

Yet there it appears.  Ranked somewhere above … ?  Wait a second, could that be?

It’s ahead of the #3 city, Portland, on Google’s list, which recently overtook Doylestown, Pennsylvania.  So that means it’s either #1 or #2, but the runner-up honor is held by Hillsboro, Oregon.

Okay, I’ll stop playing cagey.  The #1 city whose residents visit my website is none other than: Moscow, and I’m not talking about the city in Idaho.

Moscow, Russia.  And I can’t tell whether my last name, Loika, is responsible for bringing Moscovites here, or what it could be.

The statistic panders to a pronounced propensity for curious vanity, knowing that Hungarians and Russians hold authors and poets in great esteem.  (So do Native Americans, but that’s another story.)

My father, Virgil Loika, was born March 12, 1907 in Temisvaar, Romania, to Andrew and Victoria Loika.  According to Virgil, his parents gave birth to him late in life; his four older brothers had already left home.  Later, his father and brothers were conscripted into the Hungarian Calvary.

My late mother, Thelma, of English and Scottish descent, wrote “Virgil’s Story,” a historical account of my father, and observed, “He didn’t say when he began to play the violin – it seemed he always did – and he had a talent for languages.  In Budapest he played with kids from several nations and cultures, many of them Jewish.  And he became adept in Yiddish and German, mostly Yiddish.”

Is this why Alice suspects I might be secretly Jewish?  Because at some point after my parents married, the Loikas lived at 300 Lydig Avenue in the Bronx, an apartment building filled with 200 musical families.  All of them were Jewish, except for two families, of which we were one.

A book in the works will include my mother’s tale verbatim, as a preface to my own memories.  But I’ve digressed.  I daydream what accounts for Russians in Moscow visiting my website, and my imagination is running wild.

Some Russian website visitors have tried to add a comment to posts, but their plaudits are more appropriate for my email address.  Therefore, I need to make my email address more visible, which is [email protected].

Please do not feed my ego to the point I begin walking on air.  I am a sucker for compliments, but other readers could find an overabundance to be sickly sweet.  And because I’m an Aries, I suffer from expanded head syndrome.

Anyway, thank you, Moscow, for your curiosity.  I do plan to get my DNA tested soon to learn about my father’s side of the family tree, and there will be more posts about the subject when there’s something to report.

Anyway, for those who understand Russian, here’s the text of one such “comment” to my post entitled “Library Science in Hillsboro” :

Всем Привет!

Я в шоке.

Ищу уже недею и никак не найду интернет аптеку где можно не дорого купить Викасол с доставкой на Сахалин

Пока в Москве жили, пользовались этой http://www.farmshop.ru . Проверенная аптека, и доставляет очень оперативно и вовремя , но только по Москве и области, а на Сахалин нет.

Может кто нибудь знает нормальную аптеку на Сахалине?

Спасибо

I note a website is mentioned in the second paragraph.  I do not know whether it is virus-free.

If you understand the language, please email me with a translation.  Again, the email address is: [email protected].

2 thoughts on “To Russia With Love”

  1. Grossie told me about her and Virgil living at the Cacophony House together. Virgil coming to use the piano in her apartment and preparing meals for several occupants. She also told me about Virgil playing on New Year’s Eve in Time’s Square (in a venue there) and how he wouldn’t let her go out into the crowd to join the festivities because she was pregnant (I assume with you.) I can picture her peering out the window into a crowd of revelers, watching the snow fall from the warm security of the restaurant or bar. I love you Uncle Mason!

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