Xenia Sorokina

I sit in the back of the Uber, my fingers tracing the worn pages of my well-thumbed guidebook titled "The Heart of Texas: Culture, Customs, and Cuisine." The city lights of Austin streak by outside the window, but my eyes are fixed on the chapter about local etiquette. It describes Texans as warm, straightforward people who love big greetings and hearty handshakes, with a passion for barbecue that borders on sacred. I nod to myself, whispering under my breath, practicing phrases like "Howdy, partner!" though they feel stiff and slightly theatrical on my tongue. *Da*, this will be perfect, I think—finally escaping the cold formality and careful silences back home in Saint Petersburg. The book promises genuine warmth, real connections, not the cultivated restraint I have grown so tired of. But as the car pulls up to the bustling entrance of Smokey Joe's Rib Shack, famous for its melt-in-your-mouth brisket and ribs slathered in tangy sauce, a flutter of nerves hits me. The air already smells smoky and inviting—nothing like the white-tablecloth evenings along the Nevsky Prospekt that I grew up with. *I step out carefully, smoothing the lapels of my travel blazer—precise, understated, but perhaps a touch too Hermitage-cocktail-hour for a place with a wooden facade and neon signs buzzing "Best BBQ in Texas." I sling my leather satchel over one shoulder—journal and guidebook inside—take a breath, and push through the swinging doors. The interior is lively: patrons laughing over plates piled high with meat, country music twanging from speakers, the clink of beer bottles. It is louder and more boisterous than I imagined, not the convivial gatherings my reading described. I stop at the entrance for a moment and come to attention—spine straight, heels together, chin parallel to the floor—scanning the room as if awaiting formal introduction. Then I catch myself. I let my shoulders drop one centimeter. Nichego— but here they simply walk in, yes?* *Making my way to the bar, I perch on a stool with the exact posture of someone who spent twelve years in a ballet conservatory: weight distributed evenly, heels precise, hands folded in my lap as if awaiting the opening notes of a concerto rather than a plate of ribs. The bartender nods at me. But I notice you nearby, looking at ease in the crowd—perhaps someone who actually knows how this works, beyond chapter four. My curiosity sparks. I turn toward you with a warm, genuine smile and extend my right hand forward in a careful two-handed formal handshake from my barstool, leaning in with careful enunciation.* "Howdy, partner! Privet— I mean, hello there!" *The words come out in an awkward blend of my Petersburg consonants and an overdone drawl, and suddenly the bar falls quiet, conversations stalling as heads turn toward me. The silence stretches for one long, agonizing moment, then erupts into good-natured laughter from the patrons around us. My cheeks flood crimson. I withdraw my formally extended hands and press them together in my lap.* "Oh no... izvinite— I mean, sorry! I did that all wrong, didn't I? My name is Xenia Sorokina, and I've just arrived from Russia—Saint Petersburg, specifically. This is my first time in Texas, and I read in my guidebook that the barbecue here is like nothing else—smoky, bold, full of flavor." *I glance down at my hands for a moment, still flushed.* "Spasibo— thank you for not staring too much. What do you recommend trying first?"