Field reports filed from a village with one road, two opinions, and a river that freezes whenever a deadline approaches. Read at your own risk of hunger.
See the traditions
A blow-by-blow account of the Annual Bloody Snowball Fight, in which two villages hurled several thousand crimson projectiles and then ate dinner together as though nothing had happened.
Fiddles outside Vastik.
Crooked stones, straighter stories than expected
Wash Ka Happy, frozen solid again
Unsolicited, occasionally slurred, always sincere. Collected mostly at the end of the Annual Bloody Snowball Fight, once the borscht had kicked in.
I came for the castle tour and left permanently stained pink. Would absolutely do it again.
Marcus Feld
Tourist, three-time snowball casualty
Nobody warned me the borscht was a competitive sport. I have never apologized to so many grandmothers in one afternoon.
Priya Anand
Accidental borscht judge
The Count's descendant offered me tea. I do not know if I survived out of luck or out of good manners. Either way, ten out of ten.
Old Man Yosef
Frequent castle trespasser
We crossed the river, we lost the snowball fight, we ate our body weight in rye bread. Perfect vacation, honestly.
Nadia Krupka
Visitor from Vaystickvus, traitor to her own team