5

At this moment I'm drinking a half-liter can of kvass, brand Ochakovo, because I forgot that kvass really doesn't taste all that good and smells absolutely abhorrent. But I actually kind of like it. It's not as sweet as Coca-Cola and tastes like you've been sowing wheat all day. Actually, when I got here someone told me that Coke was thinking about producing its own kvass because its cola was having trouble competing. Coca-cvassa.
More about beverages: yesterday I ran for the second time with the world-notorious Hash House Harriers, Moscow chapter, a self-proclaimed "drinking club with a running problem," British through and through. You're thinking, I know it, that it should have been founded by Russians drinking vodka. (The Moscow chapter does cross country ski in the winter). But no: it is about as British an institution as you can find, and you can read all about its formation here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers. The basic premise is a hare hunt: two or three "hares" set off with a bag of flour, marking a trail that's often hard to follow, and the rest of the pack, whoever opts to show up that day, come along later and try to successfully follow it to its conclusion. The Moscow bunch is composed largely of expat British and Americans and Russians learning English, with a few odd internationals here and there, and ranges in "youthfulness" from me to, say, about 55 or 60. So it's not the fastest run ever, you can imagine, and I'm not chalking it up under marathon training or anything, but this group is out of control--wild, notorious for a reason. I've seldom laughed so hard. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
During the run there's typically a game stop, something like tag or duck duck goose, after which everyone drinks some beer, which someone has been altruistic enough to lug along in a backpack. Then we set off again, losing and finding again the trail, and eventually the run's over. I've been able to get a decent number of miles in the past couple of times by circling back at each checkpoint and running back to the front. A habit which, as I'll get to right now, is bound to bite me in the ass in the least competitive running group ever assembled. After the run, when everyone's patting each other on the back, the club circles up in an assembly called down downs. In which there an enormous number of rituals and songs and behaviors and observations and rules (the only rule is that there are no rules) and hilarity and it would be impossible to do it justice here. But, in short, the grand master, with a mad hatter hat, gives out silly awards and penalties, after each of which the offending parties group in the center of the circle and, in time to a pub song, swig a cup of beer. The penalties and the way they are presented, the way the British accent perfectly complements British humor, are, no exaggeration, side-splitting. So many acute senses of humor in one place. Offences, to give a few examples, can include: front-running (yours, truly), putting your hand in your pocket, misleading the group, saying the word "think," and so on into perpetuity. There's really no end to the things you can do wrong, and nobody cares because it's just as much fun to be the offender as it is to laugh at the offenders. By the conclusion even the saints are swaying a bit. The funniest part, of course, is the way the grand master handles the whole thing. The guys who have performed the role so far have been astoundingly funny. The songs are also good: "He might be appreciated by his mother, but he's no use at all to us..." or "Try to drink it down but it goes the other way/ drink it down, down, down, down..." Don't worry, as I'm sure you must: I'm not becoming a dipsomaniac.