NO! We are talking!
Scarcely an inch over five foot, Leonid Antonovich bellows up at me, his catastrophic blood pressure evident by the firetruck complexion. My clustermate J was assigned this cherry bomb of a host dad, who kindly issued an open invitation for any PCT to stop in for tea. I had considered this a good opportunity to start making community connections as well as practice my Russian self-introduction. No sooner were my boots off than was I at the receiving end of a very intense interrogation.
Where have you come to now?
I'm in your house.
NO! Where have you come to now?
Where have I come to now.
NO! We are talking!
Clearly this man has a very specific idea of how this conversation should go, even more specific than I do (and I only know one phrasing of one of the many possible answers.) He whirls on J and continues his tirade.
WHY doesn't he KNOW this??
It's not my fault! (I'm so sorry Steven.)
Show me your papers!
He means of course the passport copies that I'm supposed to carry with me at all times. J has already told me that Antonovich is a retired militiaman and that he has instructed J in all the tricks of dealing with his brethren. For example, you should never surrender your papers but hold them just out of reach while they are being read. I'm totally ready to impress Antonovich. My fingers have gotten the pocket zipper halfway undone when the bellowing begins anew.
NO! We are talking! Where are your papers?
[does he want me to repeat the phrase?]
Where are your papers.
NO! Where are your papers? WHY doesn't he KNOW this?
[does he want me to ensure that he's really a policeman first?]
What do you do for a profession?
NO!
At this point I pull out the page of "Really Survival Russian" phrases and turn to the emergency section, the one reserved for near-rape scenarios in dark alleys of the capital.
Stop! I will scream!
Antonovich's onslaught evaporates like a broken fever. A twinkle glints across his eye and he lets out a hearty guffaw. Now we're in the kitchen, cracking walnuts, sipping tea, and pointing out on the map the towns in which he used to hawk potatoes before independence. We come to the conclusion that Leonid Antonovich was just looking for some entertainment and the bumbling Americans posed a perfect target for some good old-fashioned chain pulling. Next time I visit, I'll hopefully be strong enough in Russian to return the favor.
(Perhaps it's improper to speak of someone else's host family before my own, but I'm a sucker for a good story.)
Scarcely an inch over five foot, Leonid Antonovich bellows up at me, his catastrophic blood pressure evident by the firetruck complexion. My clustermate J was assigned this cherry bomb of a host dad, who kindly issued an open invitation for any PCT to stop in for tea. I had considered this a good opportunity to start making community connections as well as practice my Russian self-introduction. No sooner were my boots off than was I at the receiving end of a very intense interrogation.
Where have you come to now?
I'm in your house.
NO! Where have you come to now?
Where have I come to now.
NO! We are talking!
Clearly this man has a very specific idea of how this conversation should go, even more specific than I do (and I only know one phrasing of one of the many possible answers.) He whirls on J and continues his tirade.
WHY doesn't he KNOW this??
It's not my fault! (I'm so sorry Steven.)
Show me your papers!
He means of course the passport copies that I'm supposed to carry with me at all times. J has already told me that Antonovich is a retired militiaman and that he has instructed J in all the tricks of dealing with his brethren. For example, you should never surrender your papers but hold them just out of reach while they are being read. I'm totally ready to impress Antonovich. My fingers have gotten the pocket zipper halfway undone when the bellowing begins anew.
NO! We are talking! Where are your papers?
[does he want me to repeat the phrase?]
Where are your papers.
NO! Where are your papers? WHY doesn't he KNOW this?
[does he want me to ensure that he's really a policeman first?]
What do you do for a profession?
NO!
At this point I pull out the page of "Really Survival Russian" phrases and turn to the emergency section, the one reserved for near-rape scenarios in dark alleys of the capital.
Stop! I will scream!
Antonovich's onslaught evaporates like a broken fever. A twinkle glints across his eye and he lets out a hearty guffaw. Now we're in the kitchen, cracking walnuts, sipping tea, and pointing out on the map the towns in which he used to hawk potatoes before independence. We come to the conclusion that Leonid Antonovich was just looking for some entertainment and the bumbling Americans posed a perfect target for some good old-fashioned chain pulling. Next time I visit, I'll hopefully be strong enough in Russian to return the favor.
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