In October 1985, twenty‑two years old, I landed in Paris from Montevideo, Uruguay, with a large suitcase and my head in the clouds. After years of postponed promises to send me abroad, my family finally gathered their resolve and put me on a plane. The plan was simple: attend the Sorbonne for a semester and improve the French I had studied so diligently since adolescence.

My very caring grandparents placed me under the mentorship of Princess Zinaida Shakovskoy –a respected retired journalist, writer, historian, and for many years the chief editor of the literary newspaper The Russian Mind. They were subscribed to the American newspaper The New Russian Word and had befriended its editor‑in‑chief. At some point they even sent him my early poems for judgment. In return – in some mysterious way – I believe that he led them to the Princess.

They visited her in 1984 during one of their European antiques‑buying trips. Somehow, they persuaded her to receive me in Paris. I suspect they used the “fellow poetess” argument. Like me, she was born in Moscow and wrote poetry first. Later she confessed she had been so overwhelmed by my grandmother that she simply couldn’t refuse. When Grandmother Olga wanted something, she went for it with the cunning of a tiger hunter. Very few resisted.

I had seen photographs of the Princess – elegant, serious, cigarette in hand. The woman who met me was a small elderly lady with short white hair, a slightly square figure, and a swaying gait. She dressed in dark colours and wore thick felt slippers. But her dark brown eyes were sharp and intelligent, and once she spoke, everything else disappeared. Her voice was energetic; her tone witty, ironic, sometimes sardonic, always wise. Her mind was formidable even at that age. She was a figure.

The Princess lived in an old‑style flat in the 16th arrondissement, on Rue Faraday, with her elderly pug Kim, whom she affectionately called Kimushka. Small and roundish, with half‑white hair and large brown eyes, he resembled her a bit. He growled constantly in tones reminiscent of a cracking, clanging rusty door and could drool too, but she loved him dearly.

“You’ll be fine in the mansarde,” she declared. It surprised me – the flat was quite large – but I soon understood. Fiercely independent, she would not let anyone disturb her perfect solitude. She had been a widow for years and had no children. Besides, she believed a young woman should have her privacy. Still, she often invited me into her rooms. She taught me to prepare homemade liver pâté aux fines herbes and introduced me to the miraculous tarte Tatin with caramelized pears. Very soon I was running small errands for her – not out of obligation but for the pleasure of hearing her so well‑articulated thanks. She also welcomed me into her small circle of friends – few, but fascinating. There was discussion of literature, poetry, painting, and good wine. I was elated.

Otherwise, she left me alone. I was discovering Paris on foot and loving every moment, even if autumn was quite cold that year. However, it soon became clear that I could not register at the Sorbonne – wrong season, wrong paperwork, wrong assumptions. My tourist visa was only for three months. I decided to make the best of it and visit relatives in Geneva, and I loved that place too. In fact, the longer I stayed in Europe, the less I wished to return to Uruguay even though my family wanted to have me there. Geneva beckoned, with its work opportunities at the UN, its beautiful mountains in the horizon and its international crowd. Eventually, I asked Zinaida for her thoughts.

She looked at me long and seriously with those penetrating eyes. Then she said:

“We’re the creators of our own life. Only us. Are you afraid?”

I told her I was not. She knew what she was talking about – she had survived emigration, poverty, war, and been a war correspondent.

“Very good,” she said. “Then go and make your path. Try Geneva if you like. Why not? You’ll not get anywhere by being tied to your family, even though they love you. No, you must become more light, more flexible. We take control of life by adapting. Maybe also a shorter, modern haircut – and do get rid of those old‑fashioned skirts. Now would you hand me my Lindt chocolates? Here, have one.”

She was wild about those thin dark chocolate slices.

Zinaida worked on me in her own special way – offhand, mostly ironic, posing bold questions that sometimes shocked me – but her work was akin to Professor Higgins’ in My Fair Lady. I was not always sure of myself, but I trusted her completely. And progress came. During my two years in Geneva, I visited her a few times. Yet after I moved to Copenhagen in 1988, our paths diverged until she passed away in 2001. Yet her gifts survived time.

Her historical rigor inspired me. Her use of language shaped me. Her personal courage became an example. On the more mundane side, she once gave me two elaborate silver‑coloured buttons with pearl and faux‑diamond details. One day, rummaging in a drawer, she found them and handed them to me with a snort: “Maybe something for you? I take it you’re fond of antiques.” No complaints, no regrets. Yet I know she had been both beautiful and elegant in her time.

She also gifted me a signed copy of her book My Russia Dressed as the USSR, in French. The dedication begins with:

“In memory of your finishing school in Paris.”

Some things – and some people – we never forget. And my path, as it turned out, continued in Europe all the way to the present day.