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times to claim an extra full day of work during a business trip—which they would not have
been able to do if their tickets showed a departure at 12:01 a.m.
Our own train is leaving in about an hour. That means one thing: chai (Russian for
tea). Having lived in this country for a few years, I can honestly say that the United States
missed a golden opportunity to win the Cold War. Forget nuclear negotiations. Depriving
this place of its tea would have brought an immediate cry for mercy from the Kremlin.
Russians love tea and can't live without it. Hell, within months of moving to the country,
I
loved tea and couldn't live without it. I don't know if it's the cold chaos of the place that
makes you crave a warm soothing drink, or if it's an old-fashioned follow-the-crowd syn-
drome that stuck, but the manic scene at the ticket office has left me in need of . . . tea.
“Chai?” I say.
“Chai,” Sergei says, clearly already thinking the same thing.
We find the best Yaroslavsky Voksal has to offer at this hour—a woman at a kiosk with
Lipton tea bags, small brown plastic cups, a rusty electric tea kettle and a bowl full of sugar
cubes.
Sergei and I inspect the spread and have the same reaction: “Perfect.”
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