Our first Saturday night out began most auspiciously. We’d planned on going to Дача Dacha, eagerly recommended by many Russian Smolny students and Katie’s infamous guidebook. With expectations already high, premonitions were confirmed with one final sign from the heavens: lavish, 4th-of-July finale-quality fireworks. “That’s how you know tonight is going to be incredible,” Austin explained, the lucky beholder.
Anticipation only grew greater after we were denied entrance. Our Russian comprehension was so poor that not one of us understood why the bouncer refused to admit us. Maybe it’s because we walked by three times looking for the club and finally begged a native to point it out to us. Naturally, we resorted to Barbara, located next door, until we could determine a logical and effective Plan B. Our next tactic would be to divide and conquer: split up into three pairs, enter at different times, and hope that would detract from our obvious cultural American-ness/geographic ineptitude. Alas, we were admitted to the glorified Дача!
It was everything we imagined and more. Cozy chairs, great music, foozball, and a surprising plethora of English speakers! Two girls came over to us, introduced themselves, and told us they were from Finland. “Finland?!” we responded a bit too eagerly, “WE LOVE FINLAND!” Our layover in Helsinki was one of the most relaxed, enjoyable experiences on our trip, and the views of Finland’s winter wonderland outside beckoned us to return as soon as Russia’s Visa requirements allow us out… Anyway, now our whole group is obsessed with Finland, just about as much as we are with Дача. So meeting Finish people at Дача was just too much to handle.
I arrived at our apartment building around 1:00am, kicked the mud off my boots in the pristine foyer, and quietly entered the apartment. A few minutes later, there was a faint burning smell in my room, accompanied by a discoloring of the air. I quickly unplugged all my chargers, nervous that I was responsible somehow, but nothing changed. Should I wake up my host family, even though it’s probably nothing? As I debated what to do, I heard my host mom, Nadezhda, run into my room, asking, «Kакой то запах?» “What’s that smell?” Thank God, I thought, it’s not just me.
Nadezhda immediately called the police and opened a bunch of windows. Moments after, I saw several fire trucks enter the apartment complex. Nadezhda, her daughter Olya, and I gathered in the living room, looking out the window, when we finally saw the source of all the commotion: the foyer to our building was on fire. That alone was pretty scary, never mind the fact that our apartment lay adjacent to this foyer and was separated from it only by a highly flammable wood paneled door.
I felt pretty safe, knowing that by the time the fire was visible, a crew of firemen were already at the scene. Part of me wanted to open the door and watch what was going on, but Olya wouldn’t let me, rightly so. Olya and Nadezhda told me that someone probably dropped a cigarette on the floor that caught fire, as they mumbled Какой кашмар! What a nightmare! between every other sentence. I’d always considered Russia’s high prevalence of smoking a threat to one’s own health: I’d never seriously considered it to be a threat to other people’s safety. Although the fire was a good wake-up call, Russia’s smoking problem came a little too close to home, literally.
After the firemen left, I checked my email, only to find a “Fire Safety” email from my Georgetown RA. Thanks Eric, but you were 30 minutes too late! I explained the irony of it all to Nadezhda and Olya, and they laughed, albeit waveringly. I could tell they were still upset about the damage to their apartment building, so I tried most sincerely to tell them how thankful I was that no one was hurt and that I came home exactly when I did. If I had arrived just a few minutes later, I’d have been freezing out in the snow or worse- burning up inside. «Всё хорошо, что хорошо кончается», I said. “All’s well that ends well.” They each took a deep breath, and smiled.
