Cultural Exchange via Poison Water

We have observed that every culture has its own variant of poison water. Poison water is something that you brew—or more commonly distill—that people intentionally imbibe even though it’s probably killing you, and definitely killing brain cells.

It has been our experience traveling that an essential part of connecting to the locals in other countries is to always accept an invitation to share a drink with them.

Thus, we expected that on this, our extended journey around the world, to better understand the cultures around us, that we would be exposed to other poison waters.

And so, at lunch today, as we sat down in what we realized after the fact was a very touristy restaurant, we were delighted to be seated at a communal table with the only Russians in the place. Everyone else seemed to be from Korea, which allowed me to practice the single word to Korean that I know—hello—many times.

The friendly Russians next to us were actually tourists, as well. They live half a kilometer from the Mongolian border and passionately worked to convey their opinion that Putin has sold them to China. We were very much limited by our translating app, which came up with phrases like, “duck receiver, we meet in the shower, America is number 1 to me,” and “your Germans are bent with cancer.”

What we did all understand was Vodka, which they kept pouring from a bottle hidden in their satchel. And when that ran out, they ordered it from the kindly waiter, who often doubled as an unwitting translator despite his other responsibilities. When we assumed that no more Vodka could be procured, the very touristy restaurant produced a short show culminating in presenting one unfortunate patron with a foofy hat and a horn from which he could drink poison water, specifically from Georgia (the country, not the state, formerly part of the USSR, now simply adjacent to Russia), called “Chacha”. That unlucky fellow was yours truly.

It tasted like death.

And so, here I am in the mid-afternoon, enjoying a drizzly day in Vladivostok (this is the rainiest month in Vladivostok, I kinda wish we knew that in advance), already three sheets to the wind (or is it four?) while the kids go rollerblading. Learning about cultures and growing as a person in this way is hard work; it’s hard on the kidneys, and it kills brain cells.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, one kindly Russian indicated that he liked my hat. And so I gave it to him. So as I stand, looking at the Pacific ocean, and feeling the soft drizzle of rain on my face, I am without my favorite hat. I hope he, his kidneys, and his poison water are very happy.