Soy Who?

Except for the insistence of a corn on the cob vendor that I try his wares, at a roadside market where we'd made a pit stop for my students to refill on junk food and to use the facilities, it had been a pretty smooth ride with a lot of singing and laughing, as I continuously fought the battle for the need to keep seat belts on.

Our hotel manager though was driving in the opposite direction and had contacted us on the way to inform us that we would be in good hands as all arrangements for our requests to be honored had been meticulously put in place before his departure. I did not envy him. We were on our way to breathe fresh mountain air, despite the forecast of rain throughout our stay, whereas he was on his way to breathe gas and oil fumes. 

We had just settled into the sumptuous hotel which would be our abode for the next two days in Quba after an uneventful 200-kilometer drive from Baku. The drive bordered the coast initially and then veered inland, as we passed spectacular rugged scenery we are usually deprived of in the city which does not even offer the shade of trees. The closer we got to our destination, the more dismal the weather looked but the fresher and cooler the air smelled. 

‘Could you please ask the waiter if they have soy milk?’I pleaded with one of my students.

‘What, Miss?’

‘Soy milk. Or soya milk’

‘What is that?’ 

It then dawned on me that if my worldly students had no clue what soy milk was, it was more than likely that the waiter wouldn’t either, though I hoped I’d be wrong. It also brought to light the reason for the blank stares anytime I was adventurous enough to ask for it. It hadn’t been the only place, but I kept hoping, especially that a place of that caliber, a five-star hotel, would be able to provide another variety of milk other than that of a cow's.

A verbal exchange ensued among the students which quickly gravitated to a digital exchange. Someone was quick to find the equivalent in Azerbaijani, but even before he approached the waiter to make my order, I knew I wouldn’t be getting a soy latte at this hotel either. 

I looked around the lobby admiring the faux Louis XIV furniture – plush red, black and blue velvet upholstering on seats you would sink in with pleasure after a long trip, fitted golden legs and arm rests; the heavily ornate chandelier sparkling all over, the marble floors, the floor to ceiling framed paintings of soft pastel tones... I sent a message to a friend in Paris saying I felt like I was walking in one of the halls of the Palais de Versailles, or not quite, but close enough. 

I anticipated the same ornateness in my room and eventually came back to my soy latte, which I thought they could easily have afforded to add to their stock. 

Foresight and caution were the compelling factors which led me to include a carton of the scarce beverage as I packed my bags hoping that my previous experience would not be repeated. The experience of my stay at this hotel in Quba was heightened by the opportunity of a latte with my own milk every time I ordered one. 

On another occasion, we had finally made it to the hotel on top of the mountain - another luxury hotel with contemporary décor, this time in Quballah, about 500 kilometers away from Baku. The dark wood and soft tones of the upholstery made the lobby a pleasant meeting area with its library of dark wood shelves occupied by coffee table books presenting Azerbaijan as the land of wonders, amid novels in various conditions of use donated or accidentally left by previous guests. 

My room faced the wooded, white mountains; so thick was the snow that the vegetation had no chance of rearing itself through it.

I had presented the kitchen staff with a carton of soy milk for a latte or two at breakfast. I couldn’t imagine anything more pleasant than a hot latte before a vigorous descent down the slopes. The first sip of the delicious latte I’d anticipated was a shock to my system. So as not to come across as fussy, again, I asked one of my colleagues to have a taste. She couldn’t agree with me more.

‘Disgusting!’ she blurted out. ‘What on earth is that supposed to be?’

‘A soy latte.’ I replied despondently.

‘It’s like drinking caramelized toffee,’ said another who ventured to have a sip as well.

The mug made the rounds with the unanimous verdict that it was undrinkable. There goes a whole mug wasted of the scarce beverage.

I called the waiter and asked for another one, imploring there be no sugar added whatsoever. My request was honored and I was presented with another one; a better brewed beverage which though not perfect, did not warrant any complaints. In the afternoon, while my friends indulged in the two for one drink offer, I ordered another of my very favorite and enjoyed it whole-heartedly.

The next morning, we moved our breakfast party outside to bask in the early morning rays melting the snow on the roofs and glistening on the partially visible trees. Time for another soy latte. My order was taken and I was certain it would be served the right way. My excitement grew as I saw the waiter approach, my soy latte on a silver tray propped on the palm of his left hand. His right one tucked behind him. Two steps away from me … till today I cannot tell whether it was his lack of experience, the slippery floor, or the fear he may have experienced from the extremely anticipating look on my face. It could have been all three as well. 

Whatever the case, two steps away from me, he slipped and all we saw was the mug and tray flipping in the air, landing precipitously on the ground and the precious beverage together with them both.

The waiter survived.