Today: Bazaar, Next Stop: Babushka Deli

If you have ever entered a Russian supermarket in the U.S., you probably know why the whole delivery thing can't work there. No one visits these stores just for the food.

A Russian supermarket is an adventure in itself. In order to enter the space you might have to wait for a couple of minutes at the entrance until the white-haired babushki there finish their chat. Then, as soon as you open the deli's doors, you can hear oldschool tunes--either Russian music from the 80s or some Boney M hits. "Daddy Cool" is what I heard today when I went shopping at Bazaar, one of the several Russian supermarkets in Brighton, Boston.

Black caviar, classic Baltika 3 and kefir stared back at me from the supermarket aisles. Customers also stared back at me in search of signs to reveal whether I was American or Russian. Here, every product, let alone a human, could be a conversation starter. If the Polish cheese, the Czech beer and the Ukrainian flour were all worth paying tons of attention to, so was I.

The cultural immersion wouldn't have been complete without a shelf devoted to authentic Russian cosmetic and pharmacetical products. Just above that shelf were hanging birch branches used for visits to the Russian public banya.

In that Sunday morning, I could buy tree branches to go to the sauna with but I couldn't purchase my Baltika 3 beer. In accordance with state laws, the lady at the cashier said, they couldn't offer beer before 12 p.m. "Massachusetts is very conservative," she said to chase away the surprise in my eyes, and took the beer behind the counter.

Goodbye Adventures, Hello Routine

For the first time in my life, I think, I experienced culture shock. I am sitting at the Boston bus station and waiting for the Peter Pan bus to take me to Amherst, MA where I will transfer for the last time before reaching South Hadley.

For the last couple of months I visited so many places and gathered such vivid impressions that the stagnation I found here seems unbearable. As soon as I arrived I encountered the same tedious images -- same bald Customs Service employees at Logan airport who are not rude but can never be truly friendly; same disproportionally fat people eating huge amounts of McDonald's food; same monotonous voices coming out of the speakers to announce that there is a public parking available outside. No one is making eye contact except for the giggling Chinese ladies sitting behind the Fung Wah Bus line information desk. Right now the Magnificent Wind seems to be the only thing I have missed here.

I am experiencing this culture shock maybe because I headed back to the States with preconceived notions, or maybe because I am too weak to fight against the routine, or maybe because I am not in the best of moods. Whatever the reason, right there at the South Station in Boston I felt my soul slowly emptying.