Flightster

A Taste of Siberian Hospitality

• by Alan Perlman
• on September 28th, 2010
• 6 Comments

I once learned a little something about Siberian hospitality.

It was two years ago, during a similar time of season. The air was getting cooler, the days shorter and darker. I was in the city of Novosibirsk, Russia’s third largest behind Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Through Stalin’s post-war industrialization, Novosibirsk had become one of the largest industrial centers of Siberia. Today, Novosibirsk is the self-proclaimed capital of the region, its name literally translating as “New Siberian City.”

On a Sunday morning, the aisles of Zebra Supermarket were particularly rife with activity; just what I needed to hide myself from the large and burly manager that had thrown me out the night before. It’s tough to do a price survey of Russia. Even with a translator, most store managers think I’m out to get them.

Jotting down the prices of items like milk, canned peas and toothpaste, I tried hard to blend in. My bright blue jacket certainly wasn’t helping. I turned a corner and bumped into a man pushing a small, half-sized cart.

His name was Anatoli, and he seemed to recognize me. With arched eyebrows, he pointed at my chest and shouted, “Moskva! Moskva!” I stood there awkwardly, wondering what was going on. Right, of course! He sat next to me on the flight from Moscow to Novosibirsk a couple of days before. Now it made sense.

Standing there in the aisle, I quickly exhausted the few Russian words I had picked up. Anatoli pulled out his business card. Before handing it to me, he wrote an address and time on the back. In another what’s-going-on moment, I hunched my shoulders and tried to make sense of the situation. Anatoli put his hand up to his mouth, indicating food. Maybe he was inviting me over for dinner? I pulled out my pocket-size Russian dictionary and looked up the word for tonight. “Segodnya vecherom?” I said. “Da,” he responded. “Da.”

Soon after our run-in, I was kicked out of the supermarket. I walked back to the hotel and into the business center. It took me a while to find someone who spoke English, but when I did, I had them call the number on the business card to make sure I had understood the invitation correctly. Indeed I had. Dinner, 6pm sharp, the translator relayed.

I found a taxi outside the hotel and showed the driver the address on the card. We drove out of the city. It was getting dark and I could barely make out the birch tree forests off the side of the road, in the distance. The ride took fifteen minutes. Outside of the apartment, a low-rise building similar to the ones pictured above, I was greeted by Anatoli and his wife. They ushered me in, sat me down at a table and poured tea.

Anatoli brought over a camera. He hooked it up to a small television on the kitchen table and ran a slideshow of images he had taken while traveling with his wife in Spain. “Ispaniya, Yevrope” he said. His wife set down a large dish of meat, cheese and vegetables, motioning for me to eat.

I ate and watched the slideshow. A few minutes later, Anatoli’s neighbor, a nineteen-year old girl studying at one of the local universities, came in and helped translate. She had short hair and rosy cheeks. After a short while, I realized that she and Anatoli were preparing to pitch a business proposal. I played along. Anatoli opened a notepad and drew a series of diagrams, gesticulating passionately as his neighbor explained the intricacies of the idea. It was a classic multi-level marketing pitch. I realized this when Anatoli outlined a pyramid and sketched a series of arrows pointing down from the top. The company was Amway Global, the world’s largest direct selling company and manufacturer. The Russian market was growing, he explained. Would I like to get in on the action as their American representation?

It was all too much. Anatoli pulled out his computer, asking me to sign up immediately. I was able to dodge a direct refusal when the site wouldn’t connect. I gave him my business card. It’s OK, I said. Let me think about it for a few days. I hugged Anatoli’s wife, snapped a quick picture with her and was kindly driven back to the hotel by Anatoli and his nineteen-year old neighbor.

In the lobby, I shook their hands and thanked them for their hospitality. Anatoli looked at the girl, his eyes fixed intently, and he muttered something under his breath. Anatoli waved at me and turned around, walking back toward the car. The girl followed me to the elevator. “Ahem,” I stuttered. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you want maybe to take walk,” she said.

It almost appeared as if Anatoli was trying to pawn off his neighbor in the spirit of an international business deal. I pride myself in body language awareness, but this situation was tricky. It certainly felt like Anatoli had ordered his neighbor to accompany me for the night. I thought about it for a couple of moments and determined that I was 95% sure of what had transpired.

This time, there was no faulty Internet connection to help me avoid confrontation. I politely told the girl I had a lot of work to do, sending her awkwardly back toward Anatoli, who looked just as perplexed as I probably did during our encounter that morning.

The next day, I checked my email to see if I had received any messages from Anatoli. Nothing. That evening, I celebrated my last night in Siberia with a few local beers. In the lobby, I had seen a sign for a “Dance Bar” in the basement of the hotel. My suspicions were confirmed when I walked downstairs to check it out. It was a nightly strip club, and I was the only hotel guest that had entered. Of course, that’s another story altogether.

photo credit to mmmAleksei

Alan Perlman

Alan Perlman travels the world as an international cost-of-living surveyor. When he's not hunting for the price of female undergarments in places like Syria, Rwanda and Turkmenistan, he's hanging out in Boston, MA, staying active, meeting people and brainstorming business models. You can read more about Alan and his plans to conquer life at his blog, The 9 to 5 Alternative.