Grandfather's Dacha

the problems at passport control pale in comparison with the complications of baptism for our smallest. but those of you from ex soviet states know what i'm talking about ... exhausted from our trek through countless dusty offices we were bundled into the car without seatbelts or childseats and driven to the outskirts of the city to relax at grandfather's dacha. bouncing along the country roads round potholes large enough to be tank traps to the end of a lane we reached a small two story house set inside a camouflage of apple and apricot trees, rows of freshly planted strawberry and leek plants, and a pond filled with excited frogs splashing in the light rainfall. up the rickety stairs, filling the small kitchen with our numbers and lighting the metal wood burning stove set into the stone fireplace. a large frosted bottle of vodka, fresh polish sausage from down the border road, bread from the market that morning, green onions and garlic pulled from the garden edges and still wet from the grass. the plastic oilcloth spread over the wooden table and small glasses slapped down onto its surface, the bread cut thick by a heavy hand and toasted on the metal plate on the now hot iron stove top. dripping from the recent thundershower apples are brought in through the upstairs window. after lunch we sleep where we sit and when we awake from this dream we happily find ourselves still in the dacha at the end of the lane.

poka! katrin