Preconceptions

My introduction to Russia isn’t going well. The Aeroflot jet I boarded in Copenhagen is shabby inside and out, and I doubt it’s had maintenance since Brezhnev. When I tried to distract myself from our looming demise with small talk, nerves reduced three years of language study to a stuttery “I am Katya. I study at RGGU. You are who?” Now, I am being presented with a cling-wrapped lump that turns out to be lunch, a sandwich consisting of a mouth-gluing sub roll with gobs of mayo, slippery cucumber and a thin slice of – ew, that’s raw bacon, isn’t it. If the plane does make it to Moscow, will I die from hunger instead?

No. My host family will welcome me into their flat with kasha and goat meat before sending me to unpack and sleep off the jetlag. I’ll find that, despite Aeroflot’s economy menu and the glut of Western chains littering such a cosmopolis, in the home, traditional Russian fare still rules – borscht made by a tiny babushka with sparkling eyes, dacha-grown vegetables, jam and pickled cabbage, a surfeit of sour cream. A bag of pelmeni is always in the freezer, a modern concession to avoid the work of preparing the meat filling and tiny dough wrappers.

On Maslenitsa, Russian Mardi Gras, I’ll sit in the kitchen with my host babushka as my host mother ladles bliny batter into a skillet. When my host father gets home, we’ll stuff the buckwheat crepes with sour cream, cabbage, jam or honey. We’ll follow with vodka and zakuski – drinking snacks like mild cheese, caviar and all things pickled. Babushka wants me to sip the vodka, but I’ll follow my host mother’s advice and shoot it properly.

I can’t yet see the warmth I’ll find living in a Russian home, but for now, though my sandwich is somehow both bland and alarming, I give it a nibble. There are lakes and forests below me and a rainbow circled against the blue vastness to the north, and this flying deathtrap only has to hold up for another hour. I’m back to believing the next four months will be a revelation.