The palace in Gelendzhik, according to the FSB, is just an ordinary border guard.

Everything in this life is interrelated in one way or another.
and short. Built on the outskirts of one city, or rather not on the outskirts even, but count the city, a confectionery company. Not a mini bakery, but a large factory. By advanced technology, with the participation of foreign capital, everything is done.
Solemnly opened, the ribbon was cut, and began to produce all kinds of tastes, for the joy of children and sweetheads, for the hidden anger of cuddly beauties.
After a while, the director of the factory is called to the city administration, and the head of administration says:
“They complain,” he says, “on your enterprise the residents of the nearest microregion. No collective complaint has been filed. I have to do something.
What are they complaining about? The director asks.
to smell. He explains the head. - They write that when the wind from the factory side, in the micro-area vanilla smells.
The vanilla? The director is surprised. What’s wrong with smelling vanilla? Not the shit!
Here the head of the administration looked at him strangely, thought, and spoke.
You know, people are different, one does not like the smell, the other another. You better come there, smell, talk to the locals. The question must be decided. They threaten to bring you to court. And me at the same time. Because he gave good for construction.
The director is going to the micro district. He walks out of the car and begins to pull the air with his nose. It feels like it really smells. It smells so strong. It doesn’t smell of vanilla. It smells of natural shit.
Then the director stops the first passing person and asks.
“Tell me, dear, what do you smell like this?
The passing man smelled, shrugged his shoulders, and answered.
Apparently nothing.
And went on.
Director to another passenger, with the same question. He gets the same answer. Nothing smells. I smelled again. Maybe the smell is misleading? No is no! The air clearly feels a persistent and unambiguous smell of shit. He is to the third. The same answer!
Then the director can no longer stand, and speaks indignantly.
Why does it not smell? It smells! The shit smells!
Are you about that? The local resident responds. That is normal! It’s because the wind is southwest.
Explain it! The Director says.
What to explain here? The Aboriginal says. You see, there is far away? There are cleaning facilities. When we get out of there, we smell. Not taken into account in the construction of the rose of the winds.
Did you not complain?
How did they not complain? I complained of course! Collective letters were written.
And what?
And nothing. They said it’s your own shit and smells. This is all over. We smell something, we don’t notice it. On the other hand, we built a confectionery factory. So now when we pull from there, we smell vanilla!
The vanilla?
and vanilla! And a little more cinnamon.
Vanilla is good, isn’t it?
It is who how. The Aboriginal answered. - Fuck, we already smelled, and here is vanilla...
In short, as a result, local residents sued the confectionery factory in court. And the court, which is interesting, won.
Because if it is shit, it is its own, and has a natural natural smell, and if vanilla, there are sanitary norms that limit the presence of foreign odor in the neighbouring areas of production.
True, the lawyer of the defendant put forward an interesting theory that the inhabitants are not irritated by the smell of vanilla, and that on the backdrop of vanilla they became more sharp smell of shit. But since it was only a theory, not supported by any results of the examination, the court did not take it into account.
So the factory paid a fine, and committed to put some additional filters there.
But anyway, when the pull from the north-east, vanilla in the micro-region is occasionally no-no, and it is stinking. This causes just indignation among locals. Which products of the confectionery enterprise among those with pleasure buy, thus ensuring the work of the enterprise in the southwest.
Everything in this life is interrelated in one way or another.

Vladimir Vladimirovich, is this palace yours?
Certainly not mine, but whose else?! to

It was somewhere in the mid-1990s in a deaf village where there had been no electricity for several months. Inhabitants complained, indeed, without electricity as if you live in the Stone Age. You go along the road there, and all the pillars under the root are splintered. You come to the village, and there almost every one of these pillars is a barley, a cow (plus someone in general has a fence from road signs). The hottest of the locals first switched the wires, and the rest have already pulled - what a good thing to miss! They lived for years without light.