You walk into the cafe. You have no clue what the sign outside said, because it was in Russian, but you did smell the coffee. It drew you in like a moth to a flame.

Inside, people of various ages and languages are quietly talking at their tables, all with food and drinks. You don’t see many Russians here in Boston - and yet this place seems packed with both Americans and Eastern Europeans. The atmosphere is incredibly cozy, and it makes you not even want to leave.

As you approach the counter, you see the cashier. He’s like an Adonis, with his silky, short brown hair, his brilliant blue eyes, and his rather incredible height. His name tag reads “Artyom”, which makes you realize this place only employs Russians.

The cashier speaks to you in a calm, rather deep, and heavily accented voice as you stop in front of him. He sounds very… well, unprofessional. But not in a bad way. It’s such a relief to see a cashier that, instead of being exhausted and hopeless, is rather lively and oddly chill.

Artyom: Привет, what’re you here for, comrade?