My American story, as it usually happens, began at a New York airport, where we, three friends ready for the best summer of our lives, arrived at the end of May. (Meet: Kristina in glasses, Me (Violetta), and Veronika) It took about 6 hours to get to our future workplace. Therefore, we had arranged in advance with a Russian-speaking agency for transportation to another city. A small bus arrived at the airport for us, into which, according to an old Russian tradition, they packed twice as many students as it could actually hold, and like a tin of sardines, we set off on our journey. Our driver turned out to be a Russian immigrant. He was one of those who came to the States from the USSR in the early eighties for a better life and Pepsi-Cola. He hadn't let go of the steering wheel all this time and had now retired on a well-deserved American pension. According to him, among immigrants, only children and pensioners live well; the state takes the most care of these two categories. That is why in America everyone works like a horse until retirement, just to finally live a little once they reach it. Go on a Caribbean cruise, skydive, take up car racing. Seriously! Pensioners here have just as much fun as the youth! The driver has lived here for almost 30 years, but still hasn't lost his characteristic Russian accent. He belongs to that category of Russians in America that Dovlatov wrote so much about. They love to talk about Russia in a comparative context at every opportunity, they are nostalgic every other word, but they don't want to go back. And there's no reason for them to. We were heading to a small town, Ocean City, on the ocean coast. There, I was to spend 4 months doing seasonal work. (Ocean City, Boardwalk, photographer Chris Parypa) (Gold Coast Mall) (Boardwalk from the inside, photographer Chris Parypa) (Ocean City. View from our workplace) While the driver was spinning yarns about the life of a Russian immigrant in the States, I didn't peel myself away from the window, examining one-story America. The roads, compared to Russian ones, are just a fairy tale! This country is made for motorists, not pedestrians. And what can you say, when children are taught from a young age that at 16 they will already have their first car. In local driving schools, thirteen-year-olds study, where traffic rules are explained in the form of cartoons and games, and for a correct answer at the blackboard, they get a candy. That's why their roads are smooth and driving is very safe. Looking ahead, I can't help but share the story of how I and my friends – Veronika and Kristina – rented our first car in our lives for a trip. http://worktravel.ru/ExPosts/posts/e4c9c5b7-18ba-41cc-abc1-a5550003876a/?blogpostpage=1
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