So, traveling around America as needed, at first you are surprised by the number of Russians everywhere. It seems they are evenly distributed across the entire territory, or perhaps the Russian government decided to keep an eye on you, my dear, so you behave decently and don't embarrass the great and mighty Mother Russia.

Back of beyond – the birthplace of American women's hockey – the city of the miracle on ice (good God, how they go on about that miracle) – also known as Lake Placid (though the locals insist on saying Plaaacid). Imagine a small town (read: village) with a population of three thousand, where by some crazy twist of fate, the Winter Olympics were held twice in the last 50 years. 1932 and 1980. It feels like nothing else has ever happened here. Ever. At all.

We arrive in town and the first thing they ask us is where we are from. Because we look more like Tajiks in the Moscow region who can't master the great and mighty language than like elite representatives of the Russian student body. Of course, chest puffed out, we reply that we are indeed Russian, and straight away comes the patriotism and pride for the country. Ooooh! And they reply – oh, you're Russian... well, do you remember how we beat you in hockey in '80? Huh? Pretty cool, right? And how, pray tell, are we supposed to remember that if we were born just a decade after this landmark event? Huh?