Barbeque of Discord

When Nastya hears words like "nature," "barbecue," and "river," something inside her snaps into action — like a tank rolling out onto the battlefield. And inside me, naturally, awakens a bunker. At first, I stand firm, like real granite. I effortlessly deflect all her arguments about the "need" for a trip to the wilderness and the "absolute importance" of consuming ungodly amounts of grilled pork. You see, I am about 99.3% a city creature — a loyal servant of air-conditioning, artisan coffee shops, and the sweet hum of urban life. But those remaining 0.7 (especially if we are talking milliliters per wine bottle, multiplied by two, and dry or semi-dry) are my personal Achilles' heel. And my beloved wife shamelessly exploits it.

These days, with glampings popping up everywhere like mushrooms after a rainstorm, offering every imaginable blessing of civilization, it's gotten way too easy for Nastya to lure me into "getting some fresh air."

In case you’re wondering what "glamping" is — it’s exactly what your brain conjures up when you smash "glamour" and "camping" together.
A fairly recent phenomenon in our neck of the woods, glamping solves an ancient dilemma for couples like us: when one half craves matcha tonics, PlayStation, and a cozy sofa, while the other dreams of wine, barbecue, and mosquito bites.

Eternal struggle

When Nastya’s appeals to my primal side don't quite work, she circles me with cold, hard facts — each one a well-aimed strike at my hedonistic nature.
And suddenly, I’m no longer granite. I’m sturdy, but... suspiciously lightweight aluminum.

She plays her trump cards: a private cabin. Since it’s not a tent, my defenses weaken slightly. My interest is... piqued. Sensing blood in the water, Nastya presses the advantage.
She casually tosses onto the metaphorical table: a shower cabin, air conditioning, a queen-sized bed, and breakfast delivered straight to your door.

Before I can even blink, I find myself fully surrounded — and somehow, I want to drive hundreds of kilometers into the wild and donate my slightly vintage blood to the local mosquito population. Suddenly, a day or two in the countryside doesn’t seem like something Torquemada would have come up with. Nastya’s eyes sparkle with the thrill of the soon-to-be victory.
She can see it: the client is wobbling. Time to close the deal. Feigning an "oh, by the way" tone, she dangles the final lures: an equipped kitchen — with proper wine glasses, mind you — and half-decent Wi-Fi.

And that’s it.
I'm no longer lightweight aluminum.
I'm drinkable yogurt, ready for immediate consumption.
“Shake well before use”

The "Nests" lived up to their name — tucked away among the fir trees and hidden from the prying eyes of casual wanderers. Sure, real birds don’t usually need to mess with tall fences and security guards, but hey — what do feathered folk know about the heavy burden of luxury?

When we arrived, there was only one cabin built so far, but it was obvious that if the project took off, there’d be plenty of room for expansion. For now, we had a cute little triangular hut at our service, packed with all the essentials for comfy survival. Right next to our nest was a barbecue setup, and over at the "reception" — a modest shack nearby — you could grab a bike and explore the surroundings on two wheels instead of your own tired legs. After which you were heartily encouraged to collapse into a hammock and slack off in the most respectable manner.

At night, a gentle, cozy glow would light up around the trees, perfect for sitting on the porch in a way that just screamed Instagram. You could Instagram-stand beside the illuminated pines, Instagram-sip wine, and then, less Instagrammably, start swearing like a sailor once the moth squadrons, drawn to the lights, launched full-frontal kamikaze attacks on your face, buzzing: "Hey, why aren't you asleep yet?"

As you can see, my wife highly appreciates my posing skills

When morning came, the night crew handed over operations to the daytime division. I woke up to the rhythmic tapping of something chitinous against the window. Turned out, some winged thug — either a bumblebee or a hornet (through my groggy eyes it might as well have been a pterodactyl) — had found its way into our cabin. After buzzing around and failing to find anything worth looting, it now desperately wanted out — back to its wife, kids, and pressing insect business. But the treacherous silicon dioxide (a.k.a. window glass) stood in his way.

After politely evicting the buzzing squatter, we had breakfast and agreed: this kind of getaway was surprisingly tolerable. I wasn’t running around like Melman the giraffe from Madagascar, shrieking, "Aaaah! Nature! It’s all over me! HELP!" And my wife — as any seasoned dryad would — was already melting blissfully into the landscape, basking in pure, leafy joy.

It didn’t take long, of course, for Nastya to once again feel a violent urge to hug a birch tree and frolic across a field. Thus, our next nature-merging mission was planned: a stay at a glamping site called "Soma."

Now, my beloved wife — with the tactical brilliance of a seasoned trickster — genuinely convinced herself (and by extension, me) that we were heading to the "White Well Park," near Voronezh.
We’d been there before for Very Important Business, such as:

• Hiking with friends under the merciless sun;
• Hugging llamas and alpacas under the merciless sun;
• Playing and hugging huskies in the pouring rain.
  Just kidding — of course we visited during a +35°C (95°F) heatwave.

However, it turned out "Soma" — while technically "near Voronezh" — was almost two hours away from White Well Park, in a completely different direction. Instead of a zoo-on-steroids vibe, there was a wake park, and a construction site for wedding venues, catering to those enlightened souls who interpret the phrase "money is just smoke" extremely literally. Oh, and of course — cabins for overnight stays, because glamping is serious business.

As a curious linguist, I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the name — half confused, half intrigued. The wake park was called "Insomnia" — which, as you know, means "sleeplessness."
It sounded like a braggy promise that you wouldn’t be catching much shuteye here, plus a wink toward the "Soma" theme. But if you actually translate "Soma," things get... interesting.

Depending on the source language, there are two juicy interpretations: if they leaned on Ancient Greek, "soma" means "body" or "to preserve/save." Fair enough — for a lakeside meditation retreat, that fits nicely. Although, to be honest, in places like this, the marketing usually focuses less on the body and more on your poor, overworked soul — places of power, chakra alignment, energy flows, and all the usual crystal-ball shenanigans.

However, if they based it on Sanskrit, "Soma" refers to a mind-altering, hallucinogenic drink used in Vedic rituals. It was said to trigger visions during religious ceremonies. Needless to say, the glamping administration wasn’t handing out psychedelic brews at check-in. The closest thing to a sacred ritual here was either a lazy electric pedal-boat ride around the lake or the ancient art of grilling meat on skewers. Both fine and noble activities, no doubt. Somewhat ceremonial, even. But never once has cannonballing into a lake or a plate of sizzling pork sent me into a visionary trance.

The only living being ready to change faiths — or even acknowledge us as walking demiurges — was a crafty white dog who expertly pretended to be a guard dog. One brown eye, one blue, both of them clearly saying: "As long as my jaws are blessed with juicy morsels of your barbecue, your will is my command." It was obvious this wasn’t his first rodeo scamming goodies from gullible bipeds: he lay there in the "good and patient boy" pose, slowly reaching his nose toward the plate, tracking every bite with desperate devotion, and letting out the world’s most tragic sighs every time the meat missed his open mouth by even a centimeter.

We hung out together for a few hours — until he finally grew bored of our company, our porch, and even our kebabs. Then, the treacherous canine got up and vanished into the night without so much as a farewell glance.

It immediately reminded me of another stifling summer evening, hundreds of kilometers south and a few years earlier. That time, a street cat caught the scent of my giant bag of boiled crayfish and promptly invited himself to dinner. After eating himself into a coma, he collapsed onto my legs — his furry belly stretched tight like a drum — and purred in grateful bliss.

When the food coma finally wore off, the whiskered moocher stood up, shook himself off, and strutted away without a backward glance — as if we’d never shared that beautiful, crustacean-bonded moment.

He looked something like this. I swear

A far less pleasant addition to our evening of barbecue, wine, and cherries turned out to be the eternal freeloaders of ponds big and small — mosquitoes. In my innocent optimism, I had foolishly assumed someone must have taken care of them. Maybe they’d fumigated the area?
Maybe there were cleverly camouflaged mosquito traps hidden among the lakeside reeds? Or maybe the mosquitoes had cut a deal and were getting paid extra to stick to a quasi-vegetarian lifestyle?

Nope.

As soon as the town fell asleep, the real mafia — bloodthirsty kamikaze squadrons — woke up.

Now, as someone mosquitoes have always had a particular fondness for, I’ve pretty much studied their habits. Normally, these vile creatures operate in one of two ways:

First, the "romantic" approach: they land delicately, coyly tap you with their little needle, and stubbornly demand a share of your hemoglobin. They're clumsy, roll their eyes dreamily mid-sip, and — more often than not — can’t dodge a swift slap to save their tiny lives.

Then there’s the second tactic — the one used by the nervous, high-strung, hyperactive types: they balance on their front legs, rear legs raised, take a few frantic gulps, and at the slightest hint of air movement, they launch into the sky like tiny fighter jets, belching with satisfaction and laughing in your face as they go.

The mosquitoes at our lake, however, turned out to be some kind of berserker Vikings. Apparently, they couldn't wait to earn their spot in their own version of Valhalla —
a place where sexy winged partners await, blood of all types and Rh factors flows in rivers, and even if you get squashed during a drunken melee among a band of raving lunatics, you respawn fresh and hungry the next day.

A picture that has roughly 612 309 mosquitoes. Trust me they are there alright

In short, the mosquitoes we encountered charged in headfirst:
They picked a target on our bodies, accelerated like mad, and then impaled themselves into the skin — full proboscis depth — like tiny, suicidal darts.

It actually looked pretty hilarious because even when they realized they’d been spotted (which was impossible not to notice, given the sheer audacity and bodily assault involved), only a few frantically tried to escape. The majority, with a grim contempt for death, just kept pumping away, determined to finish their bloody feast. By taking enthusiasm and greed to an absurd extreme, they had basically sacrificed any chance at maneuverability. And boy, did they pay for it. I still wonder — how do they even manage to reproduce with that kind of mortality rate?
Entomologists just smile mysteriously and say nothing.

Summing up our experience with glamping, one thing’s for sure: life there is not only possible — it’s pretty darn good. Even for a die-hard city dweller like me.

And it’s hard not to share my wife’s enthusiasm, because joint trips have their own fascinating kind of math: if something unpleasant happens, you split it between the two of you, and suddenly it’s only half as bad. But if a moment is good from every angle, the joy and pleasure get multiplied by two. And suddenly, it’s not just good — it’s downright amazing.

Which is probably why, scratching the last few bites from our latest adventure and hearing Nastya say, "Hey, check out this awesome spot I found!" I no longer flinch and think "Oh God, not again"...

Instead, I grin and say:

"Show me!"

My happiness multiplier