Do you know what it's like when someone is willing to wake up at 4 AM, fly halfway around the world, and come back — just for a horse farm?
I do.
This story was given to me by Aisha from Pakistan. We met last fall, thanks to our mutual friend Alexander, at the opening of his first SLAVA department store of Russian brands in St. Petersburg. Guests from different countries gathered there, including the head judges of the international "Admiralty Needle" competition. And Aisha was one of them.
When Alexander introduced me as someone who works with horses, her face lit up. Through a translator, she said: "I used to ride, but now my biggest wish is just to be at a stable."
Everyone felt awkward. The transfer was at 11 AM, the flight at 1 PM. Guests, escorts, the organizer: "Aisha, don't go, nobody knows the way there, it's not safe." But her eyes burned with something you don't say no to.
So I said: "Yes, let's go. We'll be back at the hotel by nine in the morning."
Honestly? I wasn't sure she'd actually go through with it. But at 4 AM, my phone buzzed. Aisha was already in a taxi: "I'm ready. Where do I go?"
She came to my place, we got in the car, and drove off into the silence. Autumn forest. Not a soul. Just the sound of hoofbeats and breathing.
I took her for a ride on our Akrapa along the still-sleepy paths. She wasn't just happy — she was crying. Then she said: "This is the best experience of my entire trip to St. Petersburg. Thank you for letting a dream come true."
We became friends. Two women — one from Pakistan, one from St. Petersburg — at a stable at four in the morning.
And then, just the other day, on May 18, she came again. And she brought a gift: bracelets with tiny bells. For the horses. For my big, warm, patient friends.
The first to see them was our black Akhal-Teke stallion, Aynur. He had never seen anything like it — his ears perked up, he froze, and cautiously breathed in the new sound. We didn't put the bracelets on his legs — we just had a calm training session to get him used to them. Aynur accepted it all. As if he understood: this thing had traveled all the way from Pakistan to jingle here, in the night silence, next to him.
People often ask me why I need horses and this life without weekends. Now I just show them the bells from Pakistan and tell them about Aisha, who didn't sleep that night. Because dreams don't wait for convenient schedules.
Thank you, Aisha. For your courage, for these jingling gifts, and for choosing, in a world ruled by tickets and deadlines, to simply be with horses. That means the world.
I do.
This story was given to me by Aisha from Pakistan. We met last fall, thanks to our mutual friend Alexander, at the opening of his first SLAVA department store of Russian brands in St. Petersburg. Guests from different countries gathered there, including the head judges of the international "Admiralty Needle" competition. And Aisha was one of them.
When Alexander introduced me as someone who works with horses, her face lit up. Through a translator, she said: "I used to ride, but now my biggest wish is just to be at a stable."
Everyone felt awkward. The transfer was at 11 AM, the flight at 1 PM. Guests, escorts, the organizer: "Aisha, don't go, nobody knows the way there, it's not safe." But her eyes burned with something you don't say no to.
So I said: "Yes, let's go. We'll be back at the hotel by nine in the morning."
Honestly? I wasn't sure she'd actually go through with it. But at 4 AM, my phone buzzed. Aisha was already in a taxi: "I'm ready. Where do I go?"
She came to my place, we got in the car, and drove off into the silence. Autumn forest. Not a soul. Just the sound of hoofbeats and breathing.
I took her for a ride on our Akrapa along the still-sleepy paths. She wasn't just happy — she was crying. Then she said: "This is the best experience of my entire trip to St. Petersburg. Thank you for letting a dream come true."
We became friends. Two women — one from Pakistan, one from St. Petersburg — at a stable at four in the morning.
And then, just the other day, on May 18, she came again. And she brought a gift: bracelets with tiny bells. For the horses. For my big, warm, patient friends.
The first to see them was our black Akhal-Teke stallion, Aynur. He had never seen anything like it — his ears perked up, he froze, and cautiously breathed in the new sound. We didn't put the bracelets on his legs — we just had a calm training session to get him used to them. Aynur accepted it all. As if he understood: this thing had traveled all the way from Pakistan to jingle here, in the night silence, next to him.
People often ask me why I need horses and this life without weekends. Now I just show them the bells from Pakistan and tell them about Aisha, who didn't sleep that night. Because dreams don't wait for convenient schedules.
Thank you, Aisha. For your courage, for these jingling gifts, and for choosing, in a world ruled by tickets and deadlines, to simply be with horses. That means the world.