Andrey's personal blog

I spent the weekend in the French city of Montpellier. I walked with Kusik through the narrow French streets, filled with the aromas of freshly baked bread, croissants, coffee, and, surprisingly, kebab. On a sunny day, the city is especially pleasant: the light dances on the old facades, street musicians play soft melodies, and the morning air is full of energy.

However, the breakfast at the hotel where I stayed was disappointing. The atmosphere felt gloomy. At the entrance, I was greeted by a woman who did not speak English or Spanish and could not answer my question about whether they served salmon for breakfast. However, she persistently asked for my room number to add it to the bill. The interaction did not go well, so I decided to look for a better place.

I chose the Pullman hotel. At the entrance, I inquired about the price of breakfast—it seemed a bit high, but, true to my style, I joked, “Well, it must be an excellent breakfast!” I agreed, and they led me to the rooftop, where their restaurant offered a panoramic view of the city.

I had my usual breakfast: oatmeal, a generous portion of salmon, bran bread with guacamole, artichokes, and, of course, a cup of good coffee. Not only was it delicious, but it was also nutritious and well-balanced—a true investment in the day ahead.

During the meal, my thoughts drifted to a person—David, a visionary whom I know from work. This man has founded several well-known companies and is a global expert in artificial intelligence technologies. But beyond that, he wrote a book about his unique nutrition system, which he simply calls “David’s Nutrition System.” I won’t mention his last name, but it’s not hard to guess who he is.

I reflected on how interesting his approach is. He has meticulously analyzed the effects of food on the body and developed his own methodology, in which nutrition is not just a necessity but a tool for maintaining high productivity, mental clarity, and emotional stability. His system is excellent, but I felt it could be refined and expanded. Optimized in such a way that nutrition not only influences physical health but also enhances cognitive abilities. In a sense, it reminded me of programming: if we imagine David’s system as a class, we could create an inherited class, redefine key parameters, and add new methods to make the outcome even more effective.

After all, what we eat (and drink) ultimately defines us.

Without a doubt, this was not just a breakfast. It was a boost of energy, thoughts, and ideas—a fuel for a new day.

We have a cafeteria in our office. A pleasant young woman works there, and the whole team likes her. She arrives at work at 7:30 AM—sometimes she complains in a friendly way that she didn’t get enough sleep—but she is always cheerful, making sure that early birds like me can enjoy a morning coffee or grab a quick breakfast.

I drink an Americano. She already knows this and, whenever she sees me, she prepares my coffee without needing to ask. Sometimes I buy a cookie, a sandwich, or have salmon with vegetables for breakfast—I believe it’s good for the brain and for health. With my workload, I have no time to cook breakfast at home.

They sell these delicious cookies—big ones, about fifteen centimeters in diameter, probably oatmeal with chocolate chunks. When I eat one, I sometimes feel like Pac-Man.

One morning, I was standing in the cafeteria with my coffee and my cookie when the senior management walked in. They were discussing important matters—bank operations involving massive sums of money. These people were far above me in status and hierarchy, but they were always polite and friendly. They greeted me and sat nearby, continuing their conversation over coffee.

And there I was, sitting close to them, lost in thought, taking slow bites of my cookie, and sipping my morning coffee with an incredibly silly look on my face.

It took me a couple of minutes to realize how ridiculous I must have seemed. Picture this: a guy sitting there, solemnly munching on a giant cookie, crumbs falling onto the table, all while staring blankly into the distance. And all this in the background of a serious discussion about multi-million-dollar deals and high-level strategies.

I suddenly felt like a movie character who had accidentally wandered into the wrong scene—not realizing it was supposed to be a tense drama and not a comedy.

The executives continued their discussion, seemingly paying no attention to me. But I thought I caught one of them glancing in my direction, perhaps noticing my absentminded expression or the almost philosophical seriousness with which I was chewing my oversized cookie.

I finished it, took the last sip of my coffee, and set my cup down. Getting up immediately felt like it would be too obvious—like I had suddenly become self-conscious. So, I just sat there for a moment, pretending to be lost in deep thought.

Eventually, the managers finished their coffee, stood up, and left.

I exhaled in relief, brushed the crumbs off my pants, and went to work.

The key was not to look silly.

Though, perhaps, it was already too late.

I have a malamute named Kusik. He is my dog; I chose him a long time ago (perhaps somewhat impulsively), and I have never regretted my decision. Now, he is over 12 years old.

And I still wonder: is it true that dogs, like children, adopt the character of their owners?

We go for walks often. Sometimes, a small but very aggressive (and probably very dangerous) dog runs up to us and starts barking loudly at Kusik. Kusik, as a rule, does not react at all. If the little dog starts jumping on him or causing inconvenience, the first thing he does is simply push it away with his paw, usually without even growling.

Who did Kusik learn this from? Or, on the contrary, is my behavior in recent years a result of Kusik’s influence on me?

That’s the kind of symbiosis we have.

Sometimes I feel like we are one. Kusik senses my mood without words. If I am tired or worried, he simply lies down next to me, silently, without demanding attention, as if to say, “I’m here.” And if I’m in a good mood, he runs up, wags his tail happily, and invites me to play. We understand each other without words, without commands, just on some deep level.

They say dogs reflect their owners’ personalities. But what if it’s the other way around? I have learned a lot from Kusik over the years. To stay calm. To ignore provocations that are not worth my attention. To have inner strength that does not require aggression. Perhaps, thanks to him, I have become the person I am today.

And Kusik also reminds me to enjoy the simple things. A walk in the rain. A good meal. The warm sun on my skin. A quiet moment where everything is just fine.

Dogs are like their owners. Or is it the other way around?

The morning was cool but no longer wintry. The air still carried a slight freshness from the night’s rain, and the asphalt glistened faintly under the streetlights, which were about to flicker off. I walked along the empty street, leading Kusik on his leash. He moved slowly, sniffing every corner, picking up traces of the city’s nighttime life.

On the sidewalk lay the peels of a freshly eaten mandarin, next to a neatly cut Barcelona transport card, sliced into perfect squares. Someone had been eating a mandarin while meticulously cutting up their transit card? Why? My mind painted a picture: a person sitting on a bench, methodically measuring and cutting the plastic, perhaps even using a ruler to ensure perfect precision. But for what purpose? Maybe the card had expired, and this was a symbolic farewell. Or was someone metaphorically “cutting ties” with Barcelona before leaving? Silly thoughts, but intriguing ones.

A little further down, a discarded Princess-brand bread maker sat on the curb. It was clearly thrown out, but by whom? A passerby cleaning out old junk? Or someone who, in a fit of frustration, decided they were done with homemade bread? For a moment, I imagined an exasperated person pulling a misshapen, burnt loaf out of the pan, then storming out to chuck the entire machine onto the street, muttering, “To hell with it! It doesn’t work anyway!”

I smirked. Of course, this was all nonsense, but little everyday observations like these help unload the brain before a long workday. Instead of thinking about upcoming tasks, I could immerse myself in this microcosm of random street artifacts, trying to piece together their hidden stories.

Kusik tugged the leash, leading me forward, past puddles and reflections of the last remaining streetlights. We headed to the café on the corner, the one that had long been part of my morning ritual. At seven in the morning, it was just opening, the scent of freshly ground coffee and warm bread drifting through the air. I took my usual seat by the window, ordered a cappuccino and a croissant, while Kusik settled beside me, resting his head on his paws.

Through the glass, I watched the street, where remnants of someone’s story still lay: mandarin peels, a cut-up transport card, an abandoned bread maker. And suddenly, they seemed to form a strange yet fascinating snapshot of life—a reminder that even the most trivial details can tell a story if you stop and take a closer look.

I took a walk with Kusik through the early morning streets of Toulouse. At this hour, the city is still half-asleep, its streets nearly empty, with only a few people hurrying about their business. I love these moments—walking along the cobblestone paths, listening to the soft patter of raindrops on the pavement, breathing in the fresh scent that lingers after a night of rain. As long as the rain isn’t too heavy, it adds a special charm to the walk.

We continue strolling, and soon, I find a cozy café with large umbrellas. There’s a table with a perfect view of the Capitole. I take a seat, Kusik settles beside me, quietly observing the world. I order a coffee and a croissant—simple, classic, and unmistakably French.

The warm cup feels comforting in my hands, and the croissant crunches lightly as I break off a piece. I take my time, enjoying this quiet moment, its simplicity and purity. My iPhone rests in my hand—a small window to the world, allowing me to be here and yet in conversations with friends across different continents. It’s fascinating how technology connects us, even when we are thousands of miles apart.

But right now, I just sit under the umbrella, listening to the city waking up, watching as life slowly unfolds around me. Sometimes, it’s enough just to be—to not rush, not plan, not think about work. To simply exist in the moment and let thoughts flow naturally.

And one day, it will become clear how these morning reflections will find their place in my life.