Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
inducing string of barks. Greeting us was Nikolai Sotnikov, a seventy-five-year-old coal
miner whose face and hands were leathery, covered in beat-up scars from years under-
ground. The warmth poured out as Sergei and I entered his childhood home. Nikolai wel-
comed me with a hug, slippers, and the question I feared most: “Vodka ili cognac?”
Vodka or cognac? Sergei shot me a glance suggesting that no was not an option. Sergei,
Nikolai, and I did a shot of cognac to toast our inaugural meeting. Then we did a shot of
vodka to celebrate sitting down at the table, and another to celebrate that Sergei and I had
begun working together. How could I remain a bystander? I led a toast thanking Nikolai for
his hospitality. This time, we went back to cognac. Nikolai poured. I raised my glass first.
“Spasibo, ochen priatno paznakamitsa!” (“Thank you, it is great to meet you.”) Down went
the cognac.
Like so many Russians, Nikolai uses alcohol to soothe himself on hard workdays. He
has battled alcoholism for years but has never won. He lives in a home with no plumbing.
Every time he uses the toilet he has to replace his slippers with sturdy boots and venture
into the cold to a wooden outhouse. His home is heated by coal, which he gets for free as
part of his pension from the mines, and he cooks on a metal slab that's heated by that coal.
And here he was, fussing over making breakfast for me: delicious
pelmeni
, small Russian
dumplings in broth, and a spread of Russian salads. As we finished, Nikolai stared at me
from across the table and waited to speak until he had my full attention. Sergei finished
slurping a spoonful of
pelmeni
, swallowed, and was ready to translate.
“People are poor and hungry in this part of Ukraine,” Nikolai said.
He stopped, allowing me to digest that fully. It wasn't a complaint so much as a state-
ment. He didn't seem eager to expand, and I hesitated to push. This was Sergei's family,
and I wanted to keep personal and work relations separate. His words just hung there.
Nikolai moved on, saying something to Sergei in Russian far too fast for me to under-
stand. Sergei turned to me and explained that he and his father were going to walk over to
the cemetery to visit the grave of Sergei's mom. It happened to be the anniversary of her
death. Having lost my own mother when I was thirty, I felt strongly that Sergei should have
whatever time and space he needed. I told him that he and his dad should take their walk. I
would be just fine sitting (let's be honest, detoxing) in the living room. This many shots—I
believe I counted ten—would be obscene for a night of intentional drinking at a bar. This
was well before noon on a day when we were supposed to be practicing journalism. But
Russian welcomes are often measured in vodka, and resisting could risk insult.
Sergei's father insisted I come along to the cemetery. As we bundled up in our hats,
gloves and coats, Nikolai put a bottle of vodka and four shot glasses in a plastic grocery
bag. After a frigid ten-minute walk, we arrived at the local cemetery, where only the tops
of gravestones emerged from a thick layer of snow. Beside each gravestone—including the
one belonging to Sergei's mom—were a small stone table and bench. Sergei, Nikolai, and I
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