Maybe it's just my aura?

The following is a completely true, only rarely exaggerated story (and even then, most exaggerations will be obviously comical) involving, well, me, as well as the following themes or events: Blini, my first (but still legitimate) McDonald's purchase abroad, November snow, Egyptian vacations, messy eating, and, most importantly, my penchant for attracting the company of interesting and pretty women potentially twice my age.




I could have guessed that Friday would be a good day straight from the get go. On Thursday there was a beautiful snowfall with big fat snowflakes and a reasonable temperature, meaning I could enjoy making footprints in fresh snow on my way home, a winter thrill I've enjoyed from my wee days in Burlington. Unfortunately, that meant that with a little warmth on Friday, the streets were absolutely gross - slushy, muddy, dirty, wet, filled with puddles, just miserable. And me in my pretty little Roman, blue sneakers? Well, if there was a time for me to get sick in Moscow, it would be after that. But I don't have time for that.

Anyway, I meant I could have guessed Friday would be good because as I walked to the bus stop, one of my backpack pockets was open, and not only that, but the one with my journal, my copy of Bulgakov's White Guard and Master and Margarita, and my camera. So basically the most valuable possessions (if you don't count my falling apart, heavily taped, barely usable, foul-smelling wrestling shoes) I had on me were out in the open. And where as in the states somebody (or twenty people in a day, as with my broken backpack) would say, "You know, your backpack's open", here a women walked by and scathingly asked, "Is your bag specifically open like that so people can rob you?" Touche.

The day continued on a typical, pleasant but unspectacular route: I had a pretty good practice, I went and drank some hot chocolate (which in Europe is literally hot, melted chocolate), and then went down to the pool hall to speak English with my main man/student, Togrul. We talked, traded some movie suggestions, drank some tea, and then I headed out at 5.

Feeling hungry and in the mood, I decided to head into the center for blini, at that same underground mall I mentioned last time. I've decided that this food court, with Teremok as my vendor, is right there with the pond by Novodevich Monastery for my favorite spots in Moscow. I ordered and then sat around looking for a spot to sit down: the food court is always at capacity, so the hungry eater is forced to scavenge a table. If you are in a group of 2 or more, once you find the table it's yours and nobody will join you (though they may take your chairs). I was alone, so as I stumbled upon an empty table in the middle, I expected company. I turned to my newspaper and started chowing down anyhow.

Before I go any further - and don't worry, the intro is almost over - let me paint the picture. I haven't shaved in almost 3 weeks; my hair is long, and additionally because I wear a hat all the time, quite unkempt; I'm wearing a coat but sleeves rolled up; and I'm reading a newspaper and eating my blin with my hands in public, minding my own business. Clearly, the word to describe me at the time: irresistible.

So I don't even notice when a woman asks to sit at my table, which forces her to ask louder. I consent, of course, go right ahead, paying her no attention at all. That's just how it is here, I figure, no biggie. And if you have to ask whether I changed my eating habits in the presence of a lady or not, well, you don't know me well enough.

Which leads to her asking me about ten minutes later, "It's definitely tastier that way, isn't it, with your hands?" Caught blini handed, I say, "Yeah, it is, I know it's a little rude, but..."
"No, go right ahead, that's the right way to do it, no questions asked." I politely ask her about her soup, which I didn't recognize, she explains, and then I return to my meal. Of course, from my mildly stammered responses and clumsy tongue, she figures out that I'm a foreigner. So we start talking; I tell her where I'm from, she tells me how she visited there once (NYC and NJ, mostly, and you wonder why her impressions of the country weren't outstanding), then she starts showing off her tan, because you see, she was just in Egypt scuba diving. Soon we're talking about Egypt and Turkey, possibly the two most popular vacation destinations for Russians, and she's showing pictures from this last trip and telling me about how she started reading Orhan Pamuk, and everybody's impressed that she reads on vacation, and so on.

By this point I'm done eating and she is slowly working on her blin, meanwhile telling me about her family history: she has Polish roots and so says she doesn't look Russian (to paint her picture, she was small, slim, with long black hair, banked in the front, bright blue eyes, a sharp nose and chin, looked late 30's/early 40's, slightly wrinkled face in spots, wearing a gray sweater, jeans, narrow black shoes, and a red scarf to match her red leather gloves, and a brown jacket that was deceivingly warm), and I could concede the point. Her grandfather was a priest in the Orthodox church (bad news with the communists, as you may imagine), she's always been a believer but doesn't like the showy sort of faith practiced in much of Russian right now. Her grandfather was from Lower Novgorod, and her father was a professor.

Anyway, we're having a great time sitting there, no particular plans or goals for the night. By this point we've already slid past the formal you and onto the familiar, and later on I learn her name is Svetlana, though she goes by Lana. And I am ready with the response that Svetlana is one of the pure Russian names left, as my distant aunt here told me. Playing the game, I tell you.
She reveals that she's a big Led Zep and Deep Purple fan (the latter is really big here, oddly), as her ringtone for known calls is "Black Dog", and that she likes Limp Bizkit. My indie snob self cringes, my 15 year old memory does it all for the nookie.

Then she says that she's talked me to death, and I should start talking, because right now I talk like I have a hot potato in my mouth. So I tell her about Saturday Looks Good To Me, my friends in a band (Bombadil, and I realized when I got home that I should have shown her my 2nd edition t-shirt from the guys, which I was wearing), my penchant for writing a song or two in English or Russian, and my love of literature. Clearly, I'm opening up the important stuff.

As much fun as we were having, we were done eating and occupying a people, and though it was already about 8:30, people were still looking for places to sit down and asking to borrow our 3rd chair, which her jacket/purse was occupying. (The first time somebody asked, she refused, the second time, I did the talking: chivalry still lives!) So we decided that we should take it out to the streets. Whatever it was. We dressed up, gathered, walked up to near the exit of the mall. I asked her where she lived in Moscow: "The Northwest corner, on the border of Ximki," she laughed. I put my location on the map, wait a second, wait a second. I asked again, "What stop on the metro?" "Tushinskaya." Ha! I get off at the next stop, we're practically neighbors! She knows the street I live on! Oh what providence, what divine intelligence!

So, now aware our destination is one and the same, we walk together to Tverskaya Street, which is to Moscow what Michigan Ave. is to Chicago. In between the major businesses and the night lights, she declares that her tea at Teremok got cold, and that she'd like to go to McDonald's and grab a tea. As much as I've strived to avoid the American hegemony of fast food (only stopping in KFC in Petersburg, once), I'm in no position to refuse. I mean, come on, if it wasn't freezing cold out, I'd literally have been putty in her hands.

The first McDonalds is small and not worth the stay, so we continue on. She asks me with whom I live, and after answering, I decide to return the question. By this point I'm certain she's not married, judging by her solo vacationing and willingness to go around with me on a Friday night, I know she lives with a cat, because she showed me a picture of him, but I'm not clear on the rest. Maybe she has a man at home, maybe she lives with friends? She answers that she doesn't really want to answer, and that she has time here, so why not enjoy what we're doing now and not worry about it. I agree, and believe me, I've been down this road before, and it led me to a wall in the old city in Tallinn. I'm an old hand at this, you might say.

So we resume our promenade to the McDonalds at Pushkin Square. After some futzing around we find a place to sit, I go and get our teas, we sit down and continue our discussion. Except at this point an interloper comes in: sitting next to us is a lone, big man who is fairly fluent in both English and Russian. It turns out he's from Ft. Washington, PA, right near Philly, and went to Temple U, and hasn't been in Russia for 20 years after leaving when he was 24. So he jumps into our conversation a couple times, for prolonged periods. I have no right to complain, and his input is actually almost as interesting as her's. Eventually his companion arrives, they leave, and it's just me and Lana shooting the breeze some more.

Our talk turns to her belief in not having any dependencies. She likes to stand out from everybody else but she also doesn't want to have a nicotine dependency, or an alcoholic dependency, or a...wait for it...dependency on love. The heart of the matter, in all senses of the word! She doesn't believe in love!

Oooh, my heart aches for her, how can this be? What are we here for if not some sort of love, be it for art or friends or romance? Of course, she was burnt by the latter, and though it was four years ago and she is well-recovered on the outside, she won't be fooled again. She says that every relationship is unequal, and well, I can understand, even if I tell her that I don't quite agree. I'll stick my neck out for that belief, anyway.

But our bond is already strong, and we ride out the disagreement and continue on our conversational journey. As we had known each other for nearly 5 hours by this point, we were wont to look back fondly on the past. Which led to her saying why she sat next to me at Teremok, rather than just by dumb chance or lack of other opportunities. This is a paraphrase, but wholly accurate in theme:
"I was standing there in line waiting for my food and looking for where I would sit, and I saw this comrade sitting there and eating his blini with his hands, and dipping it in sour cream, and I thought, 'There's somebody with no complex whatsover, no anxiety, just going at it.'"

I'll let that sink in for a few lines of blank space.



I tried to mildly defend myself, but then also told her how at school my friends get a big kick out of me eating nachos. So I guess some habits are universally appreciated by the right audience. And to show how well we were going, that led to her agreeing that Mexican food is tasty.

But all things must come to an end, even deep tea-drinking sessions at McDonalds. It was quarter past 11, and I had practice the next day, and perhaps it was time for us to leave. So we dress, roll out, straight onto our beloved Magenta line and the Pushkin station.

As we quietly wait for our train, she turns to me and asks, "would you like to take down my number?" I think the way it works for me is that I have long long dry spells and then incredible bursts of fortune, so it evens out to an average level. Anyway, I say of course, and that I was going to ask I just didn't think it was quite time. She pointed out that it was still quiet here, unlike on the trains, and I told her she was smart. Then we took down numbers, called one another (her ringtone for unknown calls is not "Stairway", denied!), and got on the metro home. We continued to talk over the roar of the train for the next twenty minutes, got off at the same stop, mine.

We went out the same exit of the station and made one intial turn together, but that's where it ended: she was off to the right to catch the tram, I was straight and to the left to catch the bus. We promised to call one another, she offered her hand, I shook it and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek exchange. And when we emerged from separate stairways I saw her sprinting for the tram. Ahh, such sweet sorrow.

Anyway, that was all two days ago, and I consider this story unfinished. But even if that's all there is, it's just the type of story I like to live, and if it gets better, you'll hear about it, for like Picasso, I can't keep my mouth shut about women but would rather "scream on the rooftops". (That's a quote from a museum in Hungary, I have it written down somewhere, it'll be on my facebook profile soon, if that helps.)


Dan