mother russia

Two things I just cannot bring myself to believe: that the Mayans will be right about the world’s time of death, and the fact that it’s been six years since I was traveling through Russia. At that point, I had just barely gotten my braces removed, didn’t know how to drive a car, likely thought the wall street journal was some emo kid’s diary, and had no concept of foreign context. Though I may not have appreciated it enough while I was there, a few memories were burned so deeply in my mind that I have no choice but to replay them over and over again with a bittersweet, sideswiped smile. For some reason the cities and the museums washed away with time, but the small towns – with their babushka’s clad in floral dresses and head scarfs, ripe with Russian Orthodox traditions – have left an everlasting impression on me.

When I found Cari Vander Yacht‘s watercolors ( I’m starting to think watercolor is to me what cookies are to that blue furry monster), I ached with nostalgia.

Her blog is as quirky and charmingly captivating as her Russian subjects. If these feelings don’t let up soon, my roommates are in for a week long supply of Russian Borscht. Authentic.

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