Long long ago, somewhere in the northern lands, between the arctic and the Caspian, east of the Urals, a man and a woman operated a tea stall, for the wanderers and the travelers, the lost and the explorers.

The stall stood high above, along a road paved by passersby. Those same passersby, cold and wanting, over the years had stopped with joyous relief, and asked for a simple cup of tea. For each, the tea was wondrous, a savior of sorts before continuing on their way through mountains and between rugged cliffs.

One evening, after serving eight or nine, the couple sat down and together each sipped the same tea. The samovar as their third company, dark golden and in the middle of a small round table, burning coal just below, released a whiff of smoke. A whiff that was scented with the magic of the tea inside. The whiff split in two and reached the man and the woman at the same time. The two opened their eyes and gazed at one another.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” One asked.

“But how? It is impossible!”

“Let’s hold hands and think hard with all our might.”

“And then?”

“And then… from our hearts we give this samovar this thought, this wish.”

“…the wish for the perfect tea, for the desiring wanderer, and the curious explorer.”

The two closed their eyes, focused on the golden samovar, and then each blew a whiff of their own to the table’s middle. The burning coals snapped and cracked, and when the wish reached the lower sphere of the samovar, the samovar rose an inch or two. It wobbled to and fro, but after a few seconds more, it managed to steady itself and rose another inch, then another, then another. Hence the flying samovar was born, golden and warm, tasked with making the perfect tea for the wandering and the curious.