This weekend was very busy. A lot of things happened, some
of which I will recount soon. But one of the more interesting things that
occurred was my realization—aha! This is where little Russian girls begin to
turn into their grandmothers.
I had just returned home from a very busy Saturday-Sunday. I
wasn’t exactly home yet… I wanted to
call my parents. First I tried a bookstore. No luck. So many people were using
the wifi, the call was dropping every few minutes. So I walked over to my
secret internet spot. I say it’s a secret because it probably ought to be,
because it’s kind of embarrassing and not entirely legal, not because it’s
actually secret. As a matter of fact, this secret spot means standing outside
of the back of a row of cafes (all of which have wifi) and making calls from
there. This way I don’t have to buy anything, there aren’t tables of people
just sitting and listening to me talk, and the annoying music inevitably
playing doesn’t bother me… as would be the case if I, you know, went inside any of these cafes.
As I was standing there talking to my parents, Nastya and
Lina walked by, going home from the grocery store. Nastya turned and smiled and
waved. I waved back.
On arriving to the apartment, Nastya intercepted me. She
proceeded to lecture me on how that was really not a good place to stand and
talk on the phone. People walking by could see me, it was too near the street,
it was too far away from home… etc. I don’t particularly agree with any of her
concerns (it’s part of the same courtyard our apartment is in; there’s the
cafes on one side and a kindergarten on the other, so I don’t think it’s a
sketchy area at all), and I pushed back a little. But she kept on. She was very
certain that my decision was wrong. Kind of like her grandmother had been last
Wednesday, when she realized I went to the ballet without tights and wanted me
to promise to wear tights all the time.
Later that evening, Nastya was recounting a story about
getting ice cream with her friend. The story went kind of like: “I got this
kind of ice cream, with hot caramel sauce. It was awesome. Polya got that other
kind of ice cream, and it was good too, but she had only cold toppings. That’s
why she got sick the next week and I didn’t, because I had the hot caramel
sauce, and her ice cream was just cold.” It’s basically babushka, telling me I
need to microwave my fruit juice so it’s not too cold.
Conclusion: Russian girls don’t become babushkas. They are born babushkas. If they ever pass a
period of life in which they seem normal and willing to let other people make
stupid decisions like talking on the phone outside or eating ice cream without
something hot on top, it’s probably because they are trying to hide their true
nature. They become babushkas for a second and final the moment they give that
pursuit up.
