A story about living in a Russian dacha.
A few years ago, I lived near Moscow, in a place called Dom Ilyanka XX.
Almost every evening, I was invited to Masha’s dacha for dinner. Whether it was in return for that or not, I’m not sure, but I ended up having to help with the family’s work.
Sasha (Masha’s father) seemed to be some kind of interior contractor. He looked like someone who built dachas and sold them to other people.
One day, Masha and I were given the task of painting the exterior walls.
Yelena (Masha’s mother) handed us the paint and brushes and explained what we were supposed to do. Fortunately, I thought the job was simple enough that even I, as a foreigner, could understand it, so I didn’t really listen very carefully.
Masha and I started painting.
Nastya (Masha’s younger sister) was watching and began to give me advice.
“You shouldn’t do it like that.”
“Why?”
I had already experienced many times how stubborn this cute blonde girl could be, so I didn’t have much expectation.
“If you’re that meticulous, we’ll run out of paint. Look at the can. There isn’t much.”
At that moment, I felt the need to assert a kind of “responsibility logic” befitting a former army sergeant.
“Even if we run out of paint, we can just leave the parts we didn’t finish. We can paint those parts later with different paint.
But if I paint it sparsely now, and later the paint starts peeling much earlier than expected, and then Sasha or Yelena comes and asks who painted this wall, whose responsibility will that be? It’ll be mine.
So I’ll end up doing the work and still not hearing anything good. That’s why I’m going to paint it properly, with enough layers.”
It took Nastya less than 0.1 seconds to prepare a counterargument, but I just replied, “да нет.”
Masha, who was standing next to me, as almost all Russian women tend to do, supported her boyfriend’s way of thinking.
Was Nastya right?
The paint ran out quickly. We had nothing left to do and sat on the ground resting.
After some time, Yelena came over to us.
Masha said,
“Mom! There isn’t enough paint!”
Yelena carefully looked at the paint can and the exterior wall, then said with a grim expression,
“It was enough.”
Nastya looked at me with a face that clearly said, “See? What did I tell you?”
While reading your post, two moments caught my attention in particular.
One was the inner speech of the former army sergeant - that clear logic of responsibility, layers, and future consequences.
The other was your brief remark about the Russian woman instinctively supporting her boyfriend’s way of thinking.
Every time I read one of your stories about life in Russia, it awakens a growing curiosity in me to read a longer, honest, unfiltered story.
The way you describe everyday reality through your eyes subtly shifts my own perception - familiar details suddenly feel different, almost newly lit.
Your observations don’t just describe a place or an experience; they reveal how perspective itself shapes reality.