Some of you were curious as to why I was here in the first place. I would love to say that Harper's Bazaar sent me on location to shoot Russian beauties in their winter furs amidst the birch trees and carved wooden homes of Western Siberia; or that Time Magazine sent me to write an article about winter life in a small Siberian town; but alas, I have been sent by a US nonprofit called ACDI/VOCA to consult with Russian entrepreneurs about how to develop marketing and increase sales to the masses. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love the work that I do. As a matter of fact, anyone else who has a unique set of skills they would like to share with Siberians could come and spend a glamorous time amidst the central-heating pipes of a Soviet town searching for the perfect bottle of wine to go with their block of cheese.

I must tell you about my wine experience. I admit, I think I am an addict and cannot live without a glass of wine with dinner. After all, I live in Northern California where I am surrounded by vineyards. The pavilion shop downstairs had Moldovan wine for $2 a bottle. I have had Moldovan wine before and figured it couldn't be that bad. I was wrong. I had one sip and could not imagine how anyone could drink a whole bottle. Spoiled? Indeed. Oh, I meant me, of course.

Last night, I tried again and I must admit, I think I have learned my lesson. The shop across the street had a wider selection of Moldovan wines: $2, $3 and $5. I asked if they had anything Spanish or Greek or Chilean? Anything? The sales girl had to check the labels and I began to realize that I wasn't in Moscow anymore. Rather than risk $5 on a bottle, I got the $3 bottle. I returned home, happy to check out this new Cabernet. The plastic covering had been infused into the cork over the past 9 years. I had chosen a vintage year of 1991. It took several tries to get the cork screw to even go into the top of the petrified cork. I managed to get it in all the way and pulled with every muscle in my right arm and shoulder, still aching from the yoga class I took the other night. It would not budge. I removed the corkscrew and found a semi-clean knife and began digging. After all, I watched Oksana open the bottle of port the other night with a knife and I knew it could be done. I got half way through and thought, forget it, I'd better return it, I'm sure the wine has gone off anyway.

So, half wondering what kind of customer service I would encounter, and wanting to save myself the $3, I put my coat and boots back on, and walked back to the store. I smiled at the woman, a young skinny sour-faced girl with thick black eye-makeup and a pasty white complexion. I showed her the cork and said it was bad and I wanted to return the wine. Oh, no! She smirked and said no way, corks here are all like that and I would just have to figure out how to open it. We argued for several minutes, I tried to remain calm; after all, it was only a $3 bottle. She told me she couldn't afford to have 82 rubles come out of her 1000 ruble a month salary. I told her it's the stores loss and responsibility and who was asking her to pay for it anyway. I told her the store across the street took back the moldy butter I bought yesterday and graciously apologized and replaced it. She told me that was butter, not wine. I asked her what's the difference? The badgering went back and forth and I demanded customer service and a manager. She asked me what I was talking about. Then a quiet authoritative man came in and asked us what the problem was. He offered to open the bottle. I thought to myself, we could at least open it and see. He took a bottle opener and patronizingly showed me how to open a bottle. I tried to explain that I had at first tried the usual method which did not work and then began to use a knife. It was no use, so I added that perhaps he had more strength than me to get it open, desperately appealing to his masculine side.

Indeed, he did and he stood there, bottle in one hand, cork screw with cork in the other with a proud sneering "tsk, tsk" expression on his rough, weather-beaten face. Okay, Miss America, what are you going to do now? You came in here, didn't get your customer service and began ranting and raving about knowing how to open bottles of wine, being from California where grapes grow, etc. etc. The bottle is open, you complained about the cork, now you can't. So, I demanded a glass. I poured an ounce into a plastic glass and offered it to the woman to try. She refused, so I took a sip. It was potable by about $1 more than the previous nights bottle. I knew I couldn't be finicky and it wasn't spoiled. It just wasn't good. Poor choice on my part, I probably should have gone for the $5 bottle.

Not knowing what to do next, I said, it's not any worse than the other wine I had and I turned on my heals with the open bottle and waltzed out of the store. The man called after me, "Come back any time and we'll open your bottles for you!" Both of them stood their with the old Soviet gleam of victory in their eyes.

My pride tarnished over a cheap bottle of wine, I was in hysterics thinking about this whole scenario and how absurd I must have looked . I began chuckling to myself as I walked, no hat, no gloves and an open bottle of wine in my hand. I passed a man who made eye contact with me for about 10 seconds too long, probably assumed I was a drunk or a prostitute and began to follow me. What is the crime rate in this city anyway? My mini-Swiss army knife was deep in my pocket on my key chain along with the whistle I brought for security. I began thinking about my dark entryway and stairwell and immediately turned to him, used as harsh a voice as possible and said, "Go away!" Not immediately, but he did, and fortunately there were several other people around as it was still early.

I returned home and told Olga my story as we shared the bottle of wine. Olga doesn't like wine, but she has never had anything other than the locally available offerings. I promised her I would bring a bottle of California wine to her the next time I was in Tomsk. Of course, that may be never, but I didn't want to spoil the moment.

 

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