A week ago I came back from Krasnoyarsk. My first trip ever to Russia, my first trip to the mythical Siberia. While traveling back, I had an undistinctive feeling of loss. It's like after a party, very early in the morning. The party goers are all tired, lying on the sofas, the music is dim, and you can hear the new day cracking. You can feel the nice, subtle warmness of the subsequent layers of alcohol in your blood. You've made new friends out of complete strangers, and with some of them you got really close: nice, deep discussions made you get so close, that it was like you've been knowing each other since childhood. You've explored together ideas and feelings, you've traveled together through extraordinary stories. And once of a sudden, you realize that you have to get back to the real world. The party is over.
It was a trip full of excitement. My positive expectations were pushed further. Beautiful, wide landscapes. Impressive infrastructures. Nice, charming people. Warm layers of vodka, soft blankets against the imminent cold weather and effective catalyzers for human links. And before each layer of vodka, a toast. Every participant has his/her turn. A surprising custom that provides the act of drinking with a real social importance: you are really together via a story, a dedication or some witty or nice words. I was told that the third toast is the most important, and it's usually said by a man: the toast for love.
This is my modest, third toast to Siberia.