There are Some Creative Ways to Make Yourself Understood.

I discovered last night that there are some very creative ways to cross the language barrier.

As Kira and I exited the metro, we were approached by a guy holding flowers. He was speaking a mile a minute, and looking at us intently, holding out a bouquet of pretty purple flowers. Thinking that he was trying to sell them (there are lots of flower vendors at the station) Kira politely said no, and shook her head. He insisted with his speech, looking us both in the eye, and continuing.

We tell him in Russian that we speak only English.

He hesitates. "English?" We nod. "My name is Sergei." he pronounces clearly, but anxiously.

"Hi Sergei." I offer, and he seems relieved by some level of clarity.

I noticed that this situation was not normal. He was way too young to be a flower vendor, too cute, too well-dressed. Plus, the vendors don't usually chase you out of the station.

Sweetly, but somewhat dumbly, he continues to try more Russian words on us, completely in vain.

"Are you selling the flowers?" I finally ask in English, because I really don't think that he is.

"Nyet, nyet!" he says emphatically. "Pliz, pliz." he repeats, thrusting the flowers into my arms.

"Thank you." I say, unsure as to whether he is just giving us the flowers. I intend to try to take them though--the flowers in our kitchen are getting that weird dead-flower smell, and they're kind of expensive to replace. This would be a pretty sweet situation.

"Where from?" he asks, and we tell him Canada. Sergei gets excited and starts saying something about Arnold Schwartzenegger.

"No, no," I tell him, "That's California. We're from CahNAHdah." I say, trying it with a Russian accent. He thinks this is wonderful news, although I'm not sure why exactly; his enthusiastic endorsement of Canada is coming in a steady stream of Russian.

He pauses, smiles, and mimics writing on his hand, so I fish out a pen and notebook and hand it to him. He writes down his name and phone number, making the international sign for "phone," holding his hand to his head like a phone, with a questioning look on his face.

"Pozhalsta. Zaveet," he says to us, and walks off with his friend.

It was actually sweet. And not pervy. I mean, we can't call him, because the phone was designed to let two people speak to one another from distant locations, and we were totally incapable of speaking to one another when we were a foot and a half apart. But the man made his point with some flowers.

And makes it the official first time that a man has ever bought me flowers as a romantic gesture.

Not a bad story, Sergei. Thank you.