Russian Magazines


Nobody warned me that moving to a new country would come with plot twists worthy of a sitcom.

Someone told me today, “Oh, I stopped by the magazine.”

Excuse me? You stopped by a what now? Apparently, supermarkets here are called “magazines.” 


Anyway, after losing my way in this country about twenty times (some stories I can’t even tell), it is a beautiful place. Cold, yes. Confusing, sometimes. But beautiful.


Speaking of cold, one day at about 6°C, of course while I was lost, I was walking around desperately needing to pee. One fun fact is that malls here rarely have toilets. I danced around. Stood awkwardly by the roadside. Smiled at strangers who also thought I was strange. Hoping that would help. To be fair, I thought I was strange too. I walked into malls, banks… and on the sixth attempt, somebody nodded sadly and decided to show me where.


BURGER KING!


Ah! Why didn’t I just walk into a place with English letters? I walked in with my full chest and found the toilet by some miracle. But it didn’t end there. There were fifteen other people ahead of me.


Someone say AMEN?! At that point, I knew someone somewhere had to be interceding for me, and that’s how I managed to save my dignity in the public eyes. And oh, thanks to my family for bringing me back home safely each time.




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