Drinking in a Russian-Irish Bar in Sochi

One night while in Sochi, I made it out to a Russian-Irish pub with two of my friends and coworkers.

When you're running five different social media accounts and tending to other communications odds and ends for multiple Olympic sports during the Olympic Winter Games, time is not something you have in excess. However, when you're in Russia and you happen to have one night free from competitions or medal ceremonies, it's time to let loose a bit.

It was definitely an experience!

When Kyle, Sarah and I met up in Rosa Khutor one night, we weren't entirely sure where to go. After talking to a few people and wandering around a bit, we finally decided on Russia's take on an Irish pub.

We pushed open the doors and were greeted by an overwhelming cloud of cigarette smoke and the sound of raucous cheering. The three of us smiled at one another. This was definitely a bit more exciting than the stale hotel bar scene we had seen elsewhere.

Kyle led us through the crowd to a corner. Immediately, two men came over to me, talking in fast, excited Russian. The first man was probably a year or two older than me, clad in the "Russian men's casual" uniform I'd come to expect - a T-shirt and sweatpants with brightly-colored tennis shoes. Even though I didn't understand a word he was saying, his excitement was infectious.

"I'm sorry," I said, probably looking like an idiot with a massive smile on my face, "I don't speak Russian!" He held up a finger indicating I should wait a moment and disappeared. I turned back to Kyle and Sarah, who were now at the bar ordering.

"What do you want?"

"Um...I think I'll do a vodka soda." I had to have vodka...I was in Russia, right?

"Three vodka sodas," Kyle said to the bartender. The bartender shrugged.

"Vodka with sparkling water," Sarah offered, trying to clarify. The bartender's expression didn't change. "Um...water with gas?" The bartender nodded.

"Pellegrino?"

"Yes! Da! Pellegrino!" we nodded affirmatively. The bartender disappeared for a moment and returned with three rocks glasses. He splashed a shot's worth of vodka in each, then pulled out a bottle of Pellegrino. He held it out for us to see like he was holding out a prize on The Price is Right.

"Pellegrino." We nod and offer a thumbs up. With quite a bit of flair, the bartender makes a show of pouring a splash of Pellegrino into each of the three glasses. He then sets down the Pellegrino bottle. Kyle promptly picks it up and empties the remainder of the contents into our rocks glasses. It doesn't look like the concept of a vodka soda hasn't quite hit Sochi yet.

Drinks in hand, we stand in a small circle talking.

Then, the second man from earlier comes over. This man, unlike young sweatpants guy before, is definitely old enough to be my father. He's dressed a bit more like someone you would expect in a ski town - a black baselayer shirt, black ski pants. He starts talking to me excitedly and points at the team logo on my jacket. I quickly assured him that I'm not an athlete but pulled a pin out of my pocket for him. He got a huge smile on his face and began talking to me in rapid fire Russian.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't understand." He looks, understandably, a bit exasperated. I stammer through the four or five Russian words I know that seem like they could be useful in this scenario, but his look of exasperation doesn't fade. Finally, he holds up a finger and disappears.

I go back to my circle with Kyle and Sarah. "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi comes on the radio and the bar goes crazy.

The entire bar sings along to the song, everyone belting out each and every word. Grown men are embracing, singing the song together with expressions of pure joy on their faces. I went to a college that really loved "Livin' on a Prayer" in a bar setting, but this completely puts it to shame.

Once the song has ended and the bar has returned to watching figure skating, man #2 returns. He pulls me away from Kyle and Sarah and proffers a 10 ruble note. He turns it over and points very enthusiastically at the scene pictured on the back. I'm assuming he's saying something about the scenery, so I nod enthusiastically and tell him how pretty it looks. This goes on for a few minutes, then he grabs my hand and starts to pull me away.

I smile apologetically and shake my head. I have to stay here with my friends, I say, pointing at Kyle and Sarah. He points towards some people dancing, then points to me and does a little dance. While I'm flattered by what I'm assuming is a request to dance, I politely reiterate that I need to stay with my friends here. He points a few more times until I smile, hold up a finger indicating to wait and turn back to Kyle and Sarah.

A few minutes later, we've disappeared to the other side of the bar, now in a group of Canadians while man #2 has returned to excited conversion with man #1. We talk to some course workers and coaches, getting some other perspectives on the Sochi experience. They fill us in on their favorite bars, restaurants and fun sites around the area. We share our best moments of the Olympics so far. It's one of those moments where we all immediately become friends simply by virtue of speaking the same language.

Eventually, we make the decision to call it a night. There's no such thing as days off during Games time and we all have early mornings the next day.

Kyle heads up to the bar to settle the tab. Sarah and I are chatting. Man #2 comes up to me and tries to get me to dance before leaving.

But instead, we clink glasses together and exchange one more smile. I say das vidaniya to him, attempting to explain that it's time for me to go back to my hotel. He smiles back and gives me a kiss on the cheek, then returns to drinking with man #1.

And with that, it's out of the smoke-choked bar and back into the clear, mountain air of Rosa Khutor.

Despite the language barrier, I have that same feeling I'd have if I had been at a bar filled with people I knew. The enthusiasm and passion those men in the bar had for just being there in that moment was impossible not to absorb. The unfiltered joy of dozens of grown men belting out their favorite song was contagious. Even without a common language to share it in, the Russians certainly knew how to make some foreigners feel at home.

I think everyone went home with a smile on their face that night.