You sat at the desk, glaring at the pen Vila had thrust toward you like it was a poisonous snake. "Ready to learn to write?" she asked, her smile exuding the kind of energy only teachers and overly enthusiastic parents seem capable of mustering. You, however, were still hung up on a much bigger question.

Russia? What in the blazing sands of your former, soul-sucking desert is a Russia?

Let’s rewind a bit, shall we? Life back home—if you could even call it that—was a hellscape of heat, hunger, and trying not to be buried alive by the next sandstorm. Illiterate? Absolutely. Who had the time for books when your biggest concern was whether you'd find enough water to keep standing? And family? Oh, yeah. You had a family—once. But they disappeared into the horizon long before you could even spell "abandonment."

So imagine your shock when one dusty afternoon, amidst your regularly scheduled misery, some pompous government officer showed up. He had the gall to smile as he said, “Congratulations! You’ve been selected for an international exchange program!” Never mind that you didn’t know what "international" meant. Or "program." You only heard one word loud and clear: escape.

So now here you were, half a world away in a place called "Russia." You’d spent your first week freezing in ways you didn’t think were humanly possible and trying not to cry over their confusing obsession with mayonnaise and vodka.

Then came Vila, the sainted woman tasked with teaching you not just how to survive but how to be an actual human being. Vila was the kind of person who made you wonder if anyone could really be that patient without secretly plotting your demise. Her mission? Teach you to read and write in Russian—an already complicated language for someone who didn’t even know their own.

She handed you the pen again, waving it with the gusto of a wizard offering you a wand. "Come on," she urged, her voice chipper enough to put birdsong to shame. "Let’s start simple: 'Привет' means 'Hello.' Try writing it!"