There are three things that all russian households have: 1. A set of cabinets that have two glass doors that enclose china and odd things shaped out of glass 2. a tapestry or rug hung on the wall 3. high quality vodka ready in the event that company stops by. This the story of my first encounter with the third.

The story began two years before, when I studied abroad in Paris. Of course there, I met a ridiculously beautiful, smart, loving girl who had to have been from a city on the oppostie side of the world from my home town. After our first meeting I went into a state of insanity where I ceased to think in a way that had any relation to reason. This insanity led me all the way down the aisle, but before then I had to meet her father. That is where the vodka comes in.

I had spent a good amount of time with her mother in Helsinki, but that was nothing compared to spending time with her father who spoke little English and had a face as imposing and intimidating as Stalin. We took the train from Helsinki to Russia (which is the best way to travel to moscow) and were greeted by her stepmother who informed us that her father was away on business for two more days. These days were filled with a bombardment of russian culture coupled with agonizing anticipation. Then, the night of the second day the door starts to open while I'm on the couch watching TV by myself and in comes this man who feels to me like he is 12 feet tall. I have never been so nervous. I approach him as confidently as I can muster and belt out "ochen priyatna posnakomitsya Anatoli Vladimiravich." This is the absolute most polite form of greeting that I am aware of in Russian language (without getting ridiculous.) he returned the greeting and we went in to the kitchen to sit down for dinner. This was where the fun began.

As it turns out he had saved a special bottle of whiskey just for me. Lucky I. Who was I to turn down such a gesture. This turned into us polishing off half a bottle of that Johnny Walker, then realizing it might be wise and festive to swich to something closer to home. Naturally closer to home meant cracking open the finest bottle of Mendelev's most amazing discovery (more amazing than his table of elements) Vodka. We toasted to everything that can possibly be worthy of toasting to. World peace, the inner beauty of the russian soul, women in general, air, sliced meat, cement mixers, information, pickles; you name it, we blessed it that night. It was funny that we communicated so well seeing that I had studied russian for 6 months prior and he hadn't spoken English in 10 years. Over the course of 6 hours we had gone from two nervous future relatives to best friend that could sing, hug, and finish off 2 and a half bottles of liquor together. Needless to say, It made my morning, night and morning again very interesting. The picture of me on the couch is me wishing that her sister would turn down the fucking television and that I would be spared the agony of my hangover by some blessed stray bullet. It wasn't until the next week that I learned that vodka was only one of many experieces that one can enjoy in the great country that I now love, Russia.