Some stories you carry with you for years — not out of shame, but because you're not quite sure what lesson to draw from them. I've been carrying Leonard's story since the summer of 2007, and today, after nearly 15 years of coaching Western men looking to meet a Ukrainian or Russian woman, I believe it's finally time to share it. Because this story contains everything you need to understand before setting foot in Russia or Ukraine.

  When Learning Russian Becomes an Obsession

To understand how I met Leonard, I need to tell you about my own journey with the Russian language. Because I don't do things halfway — anyone who knows me will confirm that.

When I decided to learn Russian, I put together a methodical system that nothing and nobody could slow down. I was literally obsessed with achieving the result. Every weekday, I forced myself to read one page of Dostoevsky in Russian — on weekends, two or three pages. Every week, a private lesson with my Ukrainian tutor in Montreal, a wonderful man who sadly passed away too soon. Every evening, a Soviet-era film with Russian subtitles. I also took adult classes at the Gramota school in Montreal.

And every summer? Off to Russia. I enrolled in private language schools to accelerate what I always felt was painfully slow progress. My goal was simple and non-negotiable: to be able to chat with any stranger on the street, order a meal at a restaurant without hesitation, read the local newspaper like a native. This obsession eventually led me to earn my Russian language diploma for foreigners at the Novosibirsk State Technical University. For those interested in my method, I've shared it on Langue-russe.fr, an excellent resource for any French-speaker wanting to tackle Russian.

And it was precisely this obsession that brought me, one summer in 2007, to Saint Petersburg — to a language school called Liden & Denz. That's where I met a man named Leonard.

  Leonard: A Broken Man Seeking a Fresh Start

Leonard was a tall, thin, blond guy — the kind of person who can't sit still. A schoolteacher in Switzerland, he had that feverish look in his eyes that people get when they're desperate to change their life. From day one, I found him incredibly wound up and nervous — the type who talks fast, laughs loud, and gesticulates wildly while telling stories.

One crucial detail: we were both divorced. And our respective divorces had been brutal. Mine from my French ex-wife, his from his Swiss ex-wife. Two men in their thirties, ground down by the Western divorce machine, who found themselves in Saint Petersburg to learn Russian. If you've been through a devastating divorce, you immediately understand the bond that formed between us — that silent brotherhood of men who've lost everything and are trying to rebuild.

We also shared another thing in common: we were practically from the same region, the Jura. Him on the Swiss side, me on the French side. The kind of coincidence that, when you're 6,000 km from home, instantly creates an unbreakable friendship.

  The Liden & Denz School: A Setting Straight Out of a Russian Novel

Let me describe the Liden & Denz school so you can picture the atmosphere. Imagine an old stone building, typically Petersburgian, with a large inner courtyard — the kind of setting you only find in Saint Petersburg, exactly like in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Several interconnecting floors, dimly lit corridors, high ceilings. We were about sixty students, men and women, mostly quite young — Leonard and I were the old guard of the group.

But what strikes you the most when you walk into that school isn't the architecture or the course structure. No. What takes your breath away is the exceptional beauty of the female teachers.

All of them — and I mean every single one — looked like they had just stepped off a fashion runway, Russian edition. Tall, elegant women with that natural grace you only encounter in Slavic countries. All except one: the head teacher, a strict, authoritative woman whose job was to maintain order and discipline. Very important in Russia.

At first, the head teacher moved me around between several classes. My conversation and reading skills were excellent, but I was absolutely hopeless at grammar. So she eventually placed me with the beginners, telling me: "Without a solid grammar foundation, you can't build anything lasting." She was right, of course. But honestly? I couldn't have cared less. Because I had fallen into a near-hypnotic state watching my teacher — a young woman of breathtaking beauty whom I fell in love with within the first sixty seconds of the first class.

There you have it. The stage is set. You now understand the magnetic power of Russian women. But wait — my story is just the prologue. Leonard's is far more dramatic.

  The Disappearance of Leonard

For two days, Leonard and I were inseparable. We had lunch together, explored the streets of Petersburg after class, and shared our divorce stories with the kind of raw honesty that only distance from home allows. We were both staying with local host families — a practice I recommend to anyone who wants a true Russian-language immersion experience.

On the third day, Leonard didn't show up at school.

I figured he was sick. Maybe a cold, maybe the local food — the first few days in Russia can be rough on a Western stomach. He didn't come on the fourth day either. Nor the fifth. Leonard had simply vanished.

Fortunately, I had his phone number and email. I called him — three times before he picked up. His voice was strange, as though he were speaking from inside a dream. He told me not to worry, that he had "met a girl" and was exploring the city with her. I found the answer bizarre. The three-week program wasn't cheap. Who abandons a pre-paid course to wander around with a stranger?

But in my naivety at the time, I didn't grasp what was really happening.

  The Banya on Dostoevsky Street: The Confession

After two weeks, we finally met again. The occasion? A banya — the traditional Russian steam bath — on Dostoevsky Street. And not just any banya: the very same one where Fyodor Dostoevsky, the great Russian author, used to take his steam baths. The establishment was a two-minute walk from where I was staying, in a neighbourhood steeped in the literary soul of Saint Petersburg.

Leonard came alone to our meeting. And I found him genuinely unsettling. His eyes gleamed with a troubling intensity. He was rambling about the women of Petersburg — disconnected, exalted sentences that bore no resemblance to the methodical, level-headed Swiss man I had met just two weeks earlier.

That's when it hit me.

Leonard had forgotten to tie himself to the mast, like Ulysses in Homer's Odyssey. The Russian Sirens of Saint Petersburg had claimed my friend. Remember the myth: Ulysses, warned about the irresistible power of the Sirens' song, ordered his sailors to bind him tightly to the mast and plug their ears with wax. He heard their song — and he survived. Leonard had no wax, no rope, and not the slightest preparation.

  The Price of Enchantment: Over $22,000 CAD in Three Weeks

At the end of three weeks, Leonard invited me to join him at a restaurant on the first floor of a massive Soviet-era hotel. When I arrived, he was seated with three young Russian women with whom he appeared to be on very intimate terms. Champagne was flowing, the table was covered in dishes, the mood was festive.

And then he said the words that sent a chill down my spine:

"I'm out of money."

I asked him how much he'd spent in three weeks. His answer: over 15,000 euros — roughly $22,000 CAD at the time. In three weeks. In Saint Petersburg in 2007. For a Swiss schoolteacher, that's a staggering sum — several months' salary gone up in smoke on restaurants, outings, and gifts for women he barely knew.

He had called his parents in Switzerland to ask them to wire more money. Leonard didn't fly home on his scheduled date. Worse still: a few months later, I learned he had gone back to Russia to arrange his permanent immigration. A man with a stable job and an orderly life in Switzerland had thrown it all away under a spell he never saw coming.

  The Lesson of Ulysses: What This Story Means for You

I'm not telling you Leonard's story to discourage you from meeting a Russian or Ukrainian woman. Quite the opposite. I'm telling you so you don't make the same mistakes.

Here's what Leonard's story teaches us:

First, the beauty of Slavic women is real — it's not a myth, it's not exaggerated, it's actually understated by those who have never set foot in Russia or Ukraine. If you're not psychologically prepared for this reality, you risk losing your bearings exactly like Leonard did.

Second, serious women — those looking for a husband, a father for their children, a life partner — are not found in champagne-soaked restaurants on the upper floors of Soviet hotels. They are found in our carefully verified database, with clear and documented intentions. These women are not looking for a one-night stand. They are looking for marriage and a lifelong commitment. If you're not serious, don't bother.

Third, you need a guide. A framework. A method. Ulysses would never have survived the Sirens without his mast and his ropes. And you won't survive the Slavic charm without solid preparation and professional support.

  Conclusion: Tie Yourself to the Mast

Leonard was a good man. Intelligent, cultured, funny, generous. But he arrived in Russia with no protection, no framework, and no method. And the Sirens did their work — just as they've been doing for millennia.

I was fortunate enough to keep my head — probably because my obsession with the Russian language gave me a goal powerful enough to resist the pull. But I'm no stronger than Leonard. I was simply better prepared.

Today, at CQMI, that's exactly what we offer our members: Ulysses' mast. A solid framework, a proven method, personalized coaching, and access to women who want the same thing you do — marriage, family, a life together.

Don't be like Leonard. Don't land in Slavic territory without preparation. The women in our agency are extraordinary — but they deserve a serious man, not a dazzled tourist who burns through his savings in three weeks.

Tie yourself to the mast. Prepare yourself. And let us be your guide.

  Questions? Contact me directly: antoine@cqmi.ca

  Antoine Monnier, Founder of CQMI Matchmaking Agency