A Russian in Bosnia, A Rooftop in Tehran, & Other Blessings

How I fled the Schengen Valley and ended up with a music video.

I flew over the Atlantic Ocean, landing in Vienna in September more than a decade ago. One of my first jet-lagged memories is not of Stephansplatz or schnitzel or the Alps, but rather the expanses of bright, white wind turbines—the dilapidated postmodern cathedrals we have insisted on leaving behind for the coming generations.

I do often wonder what our ancestors will make of them.

This impression was soon purged, however, by plentiful ancient Austrian limestone, Augustinian treatises, and the blur of life in a new country. But what I most remember from that first few months—aside from the tidal wave of beauty I experienced on a spontaneous trip to Italy—was being perpetually exhausted.

Thus, by the time I ran into serious issues a few months in with my visa paperwork that threatened to end my whole grad school adventure, I was sad but mostly just shrugged, ready to capitulate and get on a plane back to Canada. Maybe on some level I even felt relieved at the simplicity of the prospect of my failure. But, as niche Catholics are likely to do, we prayed a lot (truly, how am I going to keep this Substack from just becoming a Weird Catholic Things nerd zone?), and on St. Nick’s feast day, I received word that we had found a solution.

The lawyer on staff (bless the man, I can’t remember his name, nor did I ever speak to him again) had found an obscure law involving loyalty to Canadians from the end of the First World War which meant I could stay—on one condition:

Due to the European Union and its shared travel territory, I would have to leave for 24 hours not just Austria, but the whole Schengen Valley.

“What’s the Schengen Valley?” I asked.

“Almost the entirety of Western Europe.”

“Oh. So like half of Canada but with no car.”

“You can go to Switzerland? Or Bosnia. Maybe Bosnia. We know someone out there who is going that way. Yes, it’ll have to be during finals week. No, there isn’t another option. Yes, you’ll probably have to take a bus back to Austria by yourself from Croatia with no one speaking English. No, you won’t have to worry about anything once you’re back then. Just make sure you have the right paperwork this time."

(Because of this story and other events, should I manage to scrape my way into Heaven, I am convinced I will be given the duly humble title of “Patroness of Paperwork” and will spend my eternity making sure people get their mail, read instructions correctly, and find the necessary legal loopholes needed to not inadvertently ruin their lives.)

I packed up my books and a big bag of warm clothes—Eastern Europe in December without most modern heating systems isn’t exactly tropical—and made my way to a little town in Bosnia-Herzegovina where people had said Mary had been appearing on the hills since the 80s. I stayed at a stone “castle” retreat centre owned by some Canadians, and kept walking around town during the days in order not to freeze, and at night huddled under heavy blankets next to a tiny space heater. I was grateful, poetic, incredulous, and happy, as someone can only be on a forced adventure.

It was on one of those days that I met the talented Russian director and cinematographer Natasha Beliaeva who had come to the town through our mutual friend, and we connected over our artistic work. We exchanged emails and I heard from her a little later on, offering to make a music video for one of the songs on the album I had given her. I had also seen some samples of her work and found it beautiful.

To this day I can’t recall why I didn’t take her up on it right then, but I think it was a mix of being overwhelmed with my studies as well as a vague disbelief that she would want to create something just to create, and that it wouldn’t be a burdensome expense to my student budget. But finally, years later, when memories of those Balkan hills at sunrise had faded like an old photograph, I reached out to see if she still had interest in working on something.

This is the beautiful little film that came out the other side for my old song, “Sometimes,” filmed in Tehran, Iran, on a rooftop.

I wrote it in the middle of the night when I was 19, and composed the cello part and recorded it a couple of years later. I’m happy to share it again here today, as well as the video and the little piece of history it encapsulates.