Okay: Two Canadians, an American and a Russian Walk into StPetersburg (pt.3)

(part 1) (part 2)

As we take our seats in the train car, we we're less than thrilled to realise that the drunken German hater and his friends happen to be getting on the same car as us. Unable to get four seats together, I sit on one side of the car, Kira, Cybelle, and Slava facing me.

Not one stop into the ride, and we begin to hear “Cah-Nah-Dah! Cah-Nah-Dah!” cheering-style, from the German-haters who have now decided that we are awesome and they want our attention. Thanks to the wine, and the fact that we don’t want to encourage them we, of course, can't help but break into fits of giggles. Kira and Cybelle have it the worst--On the other side of the aisle, I try not to look at them to keep the giggles from spreading, knowing that the Russian guys will take the laughter as an invitation to chat.

But these boys need no invitation. Of course. They are openly staring and talking about us, deliberately trying to make us look (and it is at this point that I notice, with irony, that the head-dumbass is sitting in fron of a sign with the German flag that boasts “made in Germany” in Russian---and I had nobody to point this out to! Dammit!) As he tries to talk to Kira and Cybele (who are way past composed at this point) one of his friends keeps staring at me, trying to wave, looking sheepish. I thank God that I am hemmed in between two stangers. Until he turns out to be not-so-sheepish (or not-so-sober, anyway) and asks the person sitting on my right if he could please have the seat next to me. And dammit, jackass on the right! He is given the seat next to me.

I now have Kira and Cybelle absolutely losing their shit, between Ringleader on their right and place-switcher next to me. Between giggles, they shoot me sympathetic looks, but this is just too much for them. Especially since spot-switcher on my right is doing nothing--absolutely nothing-- but openly gazing at my face. Finally, after what was probably only thirty seconds but felt like at least thirty one, he speaks. I don’t even say anything, worried that if I tell him I don’t speak Russian in Russian, he will consider this enough fluency for conversation. He looks down, and thankfully, seems to get it very quickly.

But he is nothing if not resourceful, and fetches his female friend to speak with me. Apparently, this is to be our translator. She knows even less English than I know Russian, and that puts her level at---well, she doesn’t speak English. She does, however, manage to speak Russian very slowly, interjecting the occasional “Yes? You think?” into her sentences.

So, yeah, she‘s a huge help.

Cybelle leans across the aisle “I think our stop is next.” She says. And indeed the next stop is nowhere near our flat, but I ,too, decide that this is our stop.

“No, no.” says Slava loudly and cluelessly. “We have three more stops still!"

Thanks, buddy.

Then suddenly, as though with a stroke of inspiration, the lady friend leans over to me:

Lady Friend: “You,” (points at me) “You want semen tonight?”

Me:
Okay, screw polite. These people went from rowdy but funny drunks to assholes. Kira and Cybelle cannot help me at all, and I wonder if they heard. All I can manage in response is “Don’t speak to me that way. Thant’s enough. I’m not speaking to you anymore,” and hope that my body language leaps over the language barrier. The woman seems genuinely puzzled, and frustrated, and I wonder if she is really aware of how inappropriate what she just said actually is, but I have no desire to find out. Why is the St P metro so slow?
The woman grabs my arm to get my attention.

Lady Friend: “No? No? You don‘t like?” She asks me.

Me:
Lady Friend: “No? No like boats? No water?”

OHHHHHHH. Seamen.

And despite myself, I laugh, unfortunately encouraging this linguistic freak show even further. Fortified by my awkward laugh of relief, spot-switcher decides to try his tack with Slava, speaking to him in Russian and gesturing at me. Cybelle and Kira are absolutely wracked with laughter now, and I am desperately awaiting stop Akademicheskaya.

Finally, we get there, and I am up like a shot out of my seat and out the door or the train.
Cybelle and I berate poor Slava for not picking up on the girl-code of “let’s get the f*ck nout of here” three stops ago. Kira is still in near hysterics. This is followed by full hysterics as Slava informs us that spot-switcher was asking Slava if he could “take your friend to the cinema and then for a beer.”
Though you have to give the man points for tenacity in the face of complete ridiculousness. Good for him.

We grab from the 24 hour supermarket, in a stroke of inspiration, some good German beer, and decide we are through with both walking in the cold and public transport for the night.
We grab a taxi (which, in Russia, is more or less synonymous with “hitchhiking”) where we are ordered by Slava to speak no English if we don’t want the cab driver ("random citizen with a car") to overcharge us.

We get back to the flat. Hitler bites Slava, and I have another hater on my side, though Kira and Cybelle still seem optimistic about the cat’s innocence. We all chat for a bit, watch half of “The Princess Diaries” in Russian on TV, and then it’s off to bed. Tomorrow, we are going to The Hermitage, and I am beyond excited….

To Be Continued...