Sergeitsevo

Last weekend, Irina and I took the train to her village, Sergeitsevo. It's a place with two streets and maybe a hundred homes. It was meant to be a weekend of relaxation, but sometimes a weekend in a place as foreign to me as this ends up being more stressful. Her family was very friendly and Vera Fyodorovna cooked me some amazing cyrniki with fresh smetana (from the cow next door.) The eggs and potatoes were delicious and the weather was perfect.
But still I did not really understand the pace or priorities of this place. Life there seemed both poor and abundant. We had TV, and an outhouse. In the garage, there was a motorcycle, and also sacks and sacks of potatoes and onions, jars of pickles, and bottles of homemade berry wine. Once the neighbors heard there was an American around, they came over to bring cabbage pies and to grill me about Arabs and Palestinians. One older man said he hoped that my Russian would soon become "Pavlovian," such that I could respond instantly to any question, without having to pause and think of the words I needed. He came back later to have me read the labels on various American medicines he'd been given, but they turned out to be just dietary supplements. He persisted: "Which sickness? Which sickness?" and I could only say, "Not for sickness. Nothing is written here about sickness. Just take it, but not for sickness."
The train back home to Vladimir was packed. Everyone was coming back to the city, looking a little grubby, with arms full of fresh vegetables, ready to face the week ahead.