On Friday we left Osoyoos early and followed the Shambala pilgrim trail to Grand Forks. The BC interior is home to a lot of strange cults. We were also on the road to Bountiful, and I learned about a new one today when we stopped at a Doukhobor joint for breakfast borscht and bean pyrahi. My brother insensitively ordered French toast.

I’ve been listening to Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Songs of All Time while doing breathing exercises and watching the trees and mountains roll past. California Girls is the only song so far that’s gotten stuck in my head. The Beach Boys and the Beatles were pop music rivals and Back in the USSR discusses the relative merits of Russian women.

I agree with Saints John and Paul on this one: Women of slavic descent drive me bananas. The sunny climate of the interior seems to have turned all the Doukhobabes blonde too — maybe both groups were right.

The restaurant was run by three generations of women and I was paying close attention to the attire of the granddaughters bringing me breakfast from Russia with love. On the way back to the kitchen my eyes drifted up to the slogan on the back of one’s shirt:

And his hands would plait the priest’s entrails,
For want of a rope to strangle kings.

Maybe the French toast crack was wasted on them! The Doukhobabes have become militant anarchist-atheists!