Shit's Creek.

The time I got paid to be Don Draper in Minsk, Belarus.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 January 23, 2023 | [Read Online]( Shit's Creek. The time I got paid to be Don Draper in Minsk, Belarus. Cole Schafer January 23, 2023 [fb]( [tw]( [in]( [email](mailto:?subject=Post%20from%20Sticky%20Notes&body=Shit%27s%20Creek.%3A%20The%20time%20I%20got%20paid%20to%20be%20Don%20Draper%20in%20Minsk%2C%20Belarus.%20%0A%0Ahttps%3A%2F%2Fwww.getthesticky.com%2Fp%2Fi-am-your-father) When I was twenty-three years old, I was held up at the border of Minsk, Belarus staring into a pair of eyes the color of frostbite belonging to a Customs Officer dead set on preventing my entrance into her country. Just 72 hours prior, I received a terse email out of the blue from a gent named "X" who said––in far fewer words than the ones I'm writing as I retell this story now––that he was an entrepreneur and investor in Minsk and that he'd like me to give him a call. At the time, I couldn't tell you why I called the number in that email nor why I boarded the plane that carried me to that foreign land––every molecule of logic in my body was vibrating in protest––but now that I'm far enough removed from it all, it's clear I was desperately longing for an adventure to call my own. On the phone, X possessed a Belarussian accent so heavy and intimidating it'd send shivers down Putin's crooked spine. He said he had read much of my writing over at [Honey Copy]( and that he was impressed. Before I could say thank you, he asked me how much he'd have to pay me to spend the next three weeks in Minsk, Belarus teaching his portfolio of upstarts how to write like me. At the time, nobody had ever flown me anywhere to write––let alone anywhere out of the country––so I panicked and threw out the biggest number I could think of in hopes that he'd say "hell no", hang up the phone and leave me be. He didn't. Three days later, when I touched down in Minsk, it looked as if I had arrived on Hoth (the snow planet in Star Wars where Luke Skywalker goes head-to-head with the giant Abominable Snowman-looking mother fucker called a Wampa). The airport's architecture seemed to pull inspiration from some far-away intergalactic empire and I felt my stomach run cold with a wave of homesickness as I watched the snow coil and roll in gigantic rivulets across the tarmac. I was a long way from Tennessee. Inside the terminal, the whole lot of us flying Polish Airlines were greeted at the door by a dozen Belarussian servicemen––with brooding faces that could have just as easily belonged to Russian Kick-boxers––wearing berets and wielding assault rifles. These men formed a hallway that directed both myself and the rest of the passengers to a row of Customs Officers deciding our fate. My Customs Officer was doing everything she could to intimidate me, sending me on a series of bullshit errands where I had to meander back through the armed guards with the stone faces to get this ticket and that ticket (and a signature on this ticket and that ticket). For the entirety of our exchange, she feinted that she hardly spoke a lick of my tongue but after aggressively stamping my passport and finally letting me through, she spoke in near-perfect English, "Welcome to Belarus––where are you staying?" I was too nervous and delirious to respond so I just put my head down and hustled in the direction of the baggage claim before she had the chance to change her mind and send me on yet another one of her errands (I felt like a mouse that had, by the grace of some higher power, escaped the claws of a cat). When I arrived at Hotel Europe later that night, I called my father in a fit of panic telling him that I was going to purchase a ticket first thing in the morning and come back home. He gave me some fatherly advice that I still apply to this day when I'm neck-deep in Shit's Creek: just take it one day at a time. He told me that if I still felt the need to come home that very next day, I should buy the ticket and board the next flight out. What I learned––as so many people do when overcome with feelings of fear, anxiety, depression and, in my case, a homesickness I had never known before––is that feelings are fleeting. Like the wind, they can overwhelm us in tremendous and horrible gusts, and the moment we think we can no longer hold onto the roots around us before being swept away altogether, they settle into a light and beautiful breeze that wicks away our tears and cools us to a state that looks like calm. One day turned into two and two days turned into three and before I knew it, I had developed a strange, beautiful love affair with the city of Minsk. I'd rise early in the mornings, fasten on my Red Wings and head down to the lobby where I ate a breakfast of rasher––a round ham-like bacon cut from a pig's loin––and eggs so runny it was a wonder I never caught salmonella. I would then step out the revolving doors and make myself as small as possible as I knifed my way through the cold towards a Cafe Paul––that sat on the corner across from my office––where I'd order a Flat White from a blue-eyed barista who always wore a smile. Homesick and culture-shocked, I still find myself thankful for that barista. She was one of the kindest people I met while in Minsk. Still to this day, I try to honor her and the kindness she showed me––despite our language barrier––in my own life when I have random run-ins with strangers. From 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., I would do my best Don Draper. I came up with headlines and ad concepts. I wrote entire websites. And, I taught what little I knew at the time to those interested in learning. Then, as soon as work let out and I was free to be off on my own, I would run a few miles on the treadmill in the basement of the Hotel Europe, blaring Rainbow Kitten Surprise on repeat in my earbuds before showering and getting ready for dinner. I always took dinner across the street from my hotel at this bar that seemed to run the length of a basketball court. The ceilings were tall enough to house the stars and at night, I had to squint to see their arching ceilings, something I so often did as I nipped away at a Moscow Mule. Back then, I was a heavy drinker––or a heavier drinker, rather––I think it's difficult not to be when you're young, you feel that you're invincible and you are still mad enough to believe you have some great piece of art in you to gift to the world. While I can confidently say that I was half the writer back then that I am now––although that's not saying much––I miss the madness in that kid's eyes. Life has a terrible way of beating all the madness out of you; grabbing you by the ankles, turning you over and beating you into submission and then burying you deep into the ground like a railroad nail. If I could go back in time, I would take this kid by the ears and tell him never to lose this––this madness––to hang onto it, to water it, to nurture it, to protect it. Two to three mules in, I'd feel the words begin to kick and buck in my chest like a bottled-up tornado and it's here where I'd reach for my pen. During these three weeks, I wrote tens of thousands of words, long-hand, in a beat-to-hell journal that I would later lose on my flight home but whose ideas would lay much of the groundwork for my first book, [One Minute, Please?]( When the words were all but gone and there was no more juice left to squeeze, I'd order a hot plate of Drankiki––Belarusian potato pancakes topped with chicken and mushroom gravy––and I'd wolf them down before settling up with the bartender and wandering back to my room in a fresh blanket of snow. Eventually, I met two gents from London who I grew quite fond of. One was a recent graduate from Oxford; tall, lengthy, smartly dressed and in love, at the time, with a woman attending university in New York. The other was a spectacular designer who was as rough as pumice around the edges but housed a heart of gold and who always seemed to have a cigarette he was either fishing for, lighting or hanging in his mouth. Back then––and this may still be the case––you could get a fifth of very good vodka in Belarus for $5 USD. I wince thinking back to the damage the three of us did to our livers as we sat in the lobby of the Hotel Europe taking full advantage of the exchange rate whilst unpacking one another's lives like old friends who haven't seen each other in some time. I'm sad to say I haven't spoken with these two in years. But, I think about them both often. It's funny how that works. Once my three weeks were up, I got an email from X's assistant that X had flown in from London that morning to see the work I had done. The irony in my trip to Minsk was that I didn't spend any it with X while I was there. he spent most of his time in London––for reasons I'm not entirely sure––and he wasn't around at all for the length of my stay, until the very end. When I received the email, it felt as if I was playing a video game, I had reached the end and it was time to fight the boss, stick the lizard and behead the dragon. Still to this day, X is the most intimidating individual I've ever met. While I didn't know it at the time, he was the richest man in Belarus, chummy with the country's president––who is often called "The Last Dictator in Europe" because he is quite literally the last dictator in Europe––and by all accounts a super-genius. When I knocked on the door and stepped into his office the day before I had to leave, it was like entering into a bear den. He had shoulders like a lineman, a head like a bulldog and an all-seeing stare that saw passed the bullshit that advertising is so infamous for. At the end of our meeting, he shook my hand like he was wringing out a rag and told me that I did good work––but that I was a little too wordy. Six years later and I still find myself with too much to say. But, I digress. By [Cole Schafer](. P.S. If you're new to Sticky Notes, you can subscribe [here](. I name cookies for a living. For the past three years, I've named and written descriptions for a couple dozen cookies over at Last Crumb (you can salivate over a few of those [here](). While I can't take any ownership for Last Crumb's massive success, it's been hugely gratifying to provide magical little literary moments for their tens of thousands of customers scattered all over the United States. If you'd like to hire me for creative direction, messaging or advertising work, you can email me at "cole@honeycopy.com" with the project you have in mind. If you, for whatever reason, aren't interested in working with me, here are a few other, more affordable products I offer... If you love poetry, grab a copy of [One Minute, Please?](, [After Her]( or [Guillotine](. If you're struggling to face your fears, [Let the tigers through the door.]( If you're an aspiring writer, enroll in [Meet Cute](. If you're interested in advertising, it's never too cold for [Snow Cones](. If you're looking for lady luck, buy lunch with [Mr. Draper](. [Buy me a drink.]( Share Sticky Notes Assuming you think the words you just read are "good", you can spread the good word by clicking the big black button down below or highlighting that pretty red link. You currently have 0 referrals. [Click to Share]( Or copy and paste this link to others: [ [tw]( [ig]( [in]( Update your email preferences or unsubscribe [here]( © Sticky Notes 228 Park Ave S, #29976, New York, New York 10003 [Publish on beehiiv](