The Sholokhov Marton Hotel: An Unforgettable Experience in Rostov-on-Don

## A Stranger in Rostov-on-Don I arrived in Rostov-on-Don and checked into the Sholokhov Marton Hotel. The hotel's name is well-chosen, linking the writer of "And Quiet Flows the Don" with the city, as if staying there could imbue one with literary inspiration. However, I've never believed in such things. In the lobby hung a portrait of Sholokhov, the oil paint still fresh, obviously recently added. The man in the painting had piercing eyes, gazing at every traveler who entered. I thought that if Sholokhov himself stood here, he might not recognize the painting as himself. People's imaginations of celebrities are often much more exaggerated than the real person. The room was clean, the bedsheets were snow-white, and the window faced the Don River. The river water was turbid, flowing slowly, without any of the poetic charm described in the novel. Across the river, factories spewed white smoke, and the sound of machinery could be faintly heard. Several workers were fishing by the river, whether for leisure or to fill their stomachs, I couldn't tell. In the evening, I went to the restaurant for dinner. The menu featured "Grigory's Grilled Meat," presumably to commemorate the protagonist of "And Quiet Flows the Don." The meat was a bit overcooked, and it took some effort to chew. A German couple at the next table were eating with relish, exclaiming in admiration from time to time. I thought they must be associating the grilled meat with the grasslands and Cossacks in the novel. People's imaginations are sometimes more sensitive than their sense of taste. Unable to sleep at night, I went to the balcony to look at the river. The Don River under the moonlight was dark and heavy, occasionally reflecting a faint light, which was quickly swallowed by the darkness. Several cargo ships floated on the river, their lights dim, like tired night travelers. For some reason, I thought of the scene in the novel where Grigory rowed on the river. The Don River at that time must have been much clearer than it is now. The next morning, I was awakened by a whistle. I drew back the curtains and saw a large ship slowly passing by, with several blurred figures standing on the deck. They waved to the shore, not knowing who they were saying goodbye to. When the hotel staff brought breakfast, I asked about the ship's destination. "To the Sea of Azov," he replied, "carrying grain." His tone was indifferent, as if he were talking about something ordinary. Indeed, on the banks of the Don River, ships come and go, which is just an everyday scene. But in the eyes of a stranger like me, I couldn't help but give them some meaning. When checking out, the front desk asked me how my stay was. I said it was okay. She smiled and handed me a postcard with a famous quote from Sholokhov. It read: "Man is created for happiness." I thanked her and put the postcard in my pocket, but in my heart, I wondered how many of the characters in Sholokhov's novels were truly happy? Walking out of the hotel, the Don River was still flowing, not changing in the slightest because of my coming and going. People build hotels, number rooms, mark specialties on the menu, and hang portraits of celebrities on the walls, all in order to get passers-by to leave a few coins. But the river doesn't care about these things, it just flows, from the past to the present, and into the future. I stood by the river, took out the postcard from my pocket, looked at it for a while, and then let it fall into the water with the wind. The piece of paper swirled on the river surface and was quickly swallowed by the river water. People always want to find something in unfamiliar places, but what they often take away is just the shadow they project.