So if Jeff Had Just Been on Time...

Hey, remember I said I wasn’t writing much because I had nothing really to tell you guys? Well thanks to one very dense Russian, I got a good story now, kids…

I was at my metro station Wednesday night, waiting to meet Jeff. I arrive ten minutes early (I know, right?) but get a message from Jeff telling me his class is running a good 20 minutes late. No problem, I think. This is a busy location with a lot of things and people to see… I’ll just go grab myself a beer and a spot to sit outside, and I’ll wait awhile.

On my way into the store, this guy is staring at me. I ignore, but he follows me in. My Russian has come along a bit, so when he asks me what I’m getting, I manage to respond.
“Which kind are you getting?”
I tell him, and he puts the money on the counter and orders my beer for me. I try to refuse, but he and his friend insist. I thank them, take my beer, and head back outside.

Of course this cannot be the end of it. They approach me where I am outside and try to strike up a conversation. About one minute in, it is clear that they are not going to have an easy time of this. For about twenty minutes we manage to chat in a weird mix of Russian, English and Ukrainian (one of the guys is from Kiev) but it is absolutely painstaking. We talk about jobs, how long I’ve been here and why I came.

The much more chatty guy pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. I can’t quite figure out what he’s saying, but after a bit of reading and a lot of slooow description, I figure out that this paper gets him out of giving the militsiya any bribe money on the street. Bear in mind that the topic of the militsiya did not come up at all. He just brought this piece of paper out as a conversation starter. I think--I think--this was meant to impress me. Apparently this is the low-rent Moscow equivalent to “accidentally” pulling out the keys to your sports car.

They are friendly enough, but I have to wonder how much half-understood conversation they really want to put up with. The chatty one in particular is clearly trying to pick me up, but hasn’t been anything worse than a little annoying. They are waiting for two friends, and--hoping to put and end to this-- I tell them that I’m waiting for a man.

Not a deterrent, apparently.

Then Jeff calls: problem with transport. He’s going to be at least fifteen more minutes. I tell him that extreme affection is necessary upon arrival, because these boys are kind enough, but obviously dense. Wherever he is in Moscow, he is amused and assures me that he‘ll be at the station as soon as he can.

It’s been about half an hour, now.

“Your man isn’t coming!” Chatty says. “You’ve been waiting too long!”
“Uh-Your friends aren’t here either,” I point out. (Yes, I’ve been perfecting my sass in Russian.) He finds this funny.
“We are going to (name of some bar) with our friends. You should take the metro there and drink with us. Our friends--they are women,” He reassures me. (yeah, that makes the situation more appropriate).
“I’m waiting for someone,” I say for what has to be fifteenth time.

Then, suddenly, in the most basic and broken UkRussian he’s got, he says to me:
“You are so beautiful. My heart, your heart--they are one heart.”
I can’t help it and burst into near-hysterical laughter. Aw shit. I don’t think so, buddy.
“Nyet,” I say deadpan.
“Why not?” asks Chatty in earnest.
“I’m…waiting for someone…so…He’ll be here right away. So…I’m not going anywhere.”
Long pause.
“Will he be mad that we’re talking?”
“Um, no. I don’t see why he would.”

Another pause. “Your man who is coming--is he a big man?” He gestures tall, makes a muscle-flexing action.

Fantastic. Now I can have some fun with this. “Yes,” I answer truthfully. “Very tall. Tee sznayesh mot ‘military’?” Chatty nods, ”Yeah, He’s in the Navy. Amerikanski militari. Pretty big guy.” I mimic his gestures. “Big.”
One more pause. “Maybe we should go?” he asks with concern.

Bingo.

I give them a “whatever-you-think” shrug. And we’re getting somewhere now.
He touches my shoulder “But I love you.” He says in English.

Jesus *^%, this guy

“No, you do not.” I reply in Russian.
“How do you know?” he asks wide-eyed. “I do!”

Mercifully a very late Jeff calls--he’s at the station finally. He finds us, and this must be the end of it, right?

Not for Chatty. He reaches out to shake Jeff’s hand and introduce himself and his friend. In a conversation that takes place entirely in Russian and is only explained to me later by a very amused Jeff, Chatty says that he hopes he doesn’t mind that they were talking to me, that they appreciated the chance to chat with a foreigner, especially one that he finds so pretty. Jeff assures them that it is not a problem.

“We just wanted to talk to her.” Chatty repeats with a good deal of enthusiasm and smiling, telling Jeff that they bought me beer as well, but that it is all very innocent, and that Jeff is a lucky man to be taking me out tonight. He tells us to have a good time, thanks Jeff for his “understanding,” and another round of cheerful handshakes all around.

I really don’t know what to make of this situation. Funny? Of course. Creepy? I’m not sure, but I think at least little. Weird? Hell yes. Especially the redundant explanations to Jeff. I’m suspecting that a Russian guy would have kicked Chatty’s ass? Or maybe just this is expected from guy to guy in this siituation. Maybe Chatty’s just as weird as he seems?

On a definite upside, I learned more Russian in that 45 minute conversation than I have in the last month. And I got two free beer.

So my Wednesday evening. Moscow. Yeah.