Russian house - that's the username for "Windows" on our laptop at home. I liked it, so I decided to name the story about our life in the house after it.

Russian house is a large two-story house with three bedrooms, three bathrooms, two balconies, a big kitchen, and a swing in the backyard.

Russian house is located in Florida, in Destin, on Cobia street, very close to the beach.

Ten Russian girls live in the house. Vika, Yulia, Sveta, Olya, Natasha and Lena, Ira and Olya, and Natasha and I. Vika is from Moscow, Yulia is from Norilsk, Sveta is also from Moscow, but originally from Arkhangelsk, Olya is from Vladivostok, Natasha and Lena are from Chelyabinsk, Ira is from Bryansk, Olya is from the Moscow region, and Natasha and I are from Moscow, but originally from Kurilsk.

None of us knew each other before the trip. I mean, the girls who, like Natasha and me, were planning to go together - they, of course, knew each other, but the other girls - no. Lena and Natasha arrived at the house first and started looking for other girls to rent the house with. At first, they found Olya, Ira, and Olya through the internet, then someone found someone else, and that's how we all ended up in Russian house.

Ten different girls means more than twenty pairs of shoes in front of the stairs on the first floor, a dozen beach towels hung out to dry in the sun, ten suitcases standing in the corners, ten people sharing one computer with internet in the house, a queue of three people for each bathroom after the beach, and countless shampoos, conditioners, sunscreens, tanning oils, cosmetics, perfumes, and other feminine joys.

Ten different girls means a phone ringing off the hook on weekends, shouts of "Natasha, Vitalya is calling you! Get to the phone quickly!" or "Olya! Sasha has arrived for you!" or "Yulia, your social has arrived!" (meaning social security number); it's a fridge packed with the most "fat free" milk we could find here and ten boxes of cereal lined up on the kitchen shelves.

It's at least ten smiles a day, although there are tears too, ten pieces of gossip a day, ten pairs of slightly narrowed eyes evaluating your new outfit.

But most importantly, ten different girls means ten different characters, ten tastes, ten views on life.

And these views don't always align.

For example, I'm sure that some of us would never have become friends and would hardly have communicated if chance hadn't brought us together like this. And chance is exactly what brought Natasha and me here - meeting Vika at the airport.

But since we all ended up here, we get along with each other, especially since you can't live here alone without following simple rules of living together.

And the rules in Russian house are: always close the doors behind you, otherwise lizards and huge cockroaches, which we are all so afraid of, will crawl into the house.

Do not walk in shoes on the second floor.

Save electricity, gas, and water because we pay for them separately ourselves.

Remember or write down who is calling whom and ask to leave a number if they are calling about work.

And, most importantly, remember that "there are nine of us here," not ten, and those who have never seen Griselle - the landlady - should not let her see them, and if they do, say that they are guests here.

Not all the girls know English well.

Not all the girls managed to adapt to such "dorm" life right away.

If I compare life in Russian house with something I've already had to experience, I would say that in terms of atmosphere, it's like living in a dormitory in the first year, in section 3/2, building "D", those who know will understand me. (Right, Nastya?)))

Almost all the girls work. Some have two or even three jobs. It's rare to have a day when many girls at once, about eight people, go to the beach.

But when it happens, guys driving big American cars watch the group of slim, tanned Russian girls in swimsuits crossing the road for a long time.

Oh-oh-oh, watch out, American boys!)))

......

I wanted to describe a few more vivid impressions of life in such an interesting house, but my train of thought was interrupted by Karina's call. Ira picked up the phone. She said: "Hi, Karina!", then, in a surprised voice: "Who, boys?", and then, smiling beautifully: "Well, okay, bring the boys here."

And in the evening, when we were celebrating the arrival of the boys - Kolya, Vanya, and Marat from Moscow - in the backyard of our Russian house, Kolya, while giving another toast, said: "When Karina was talking about your house, she said: 'Ten Russian girls live there, and imagine, they haven't quarreled even once!'".

So there were no longer ten of us, but thirteen, and now one room in Russian house is occupied by the boys.