All that could be heard in the darkness was my friends and I shouting his name, and the thuds and grunts of Anton wrestling with another guy.Only a few minutes ago, we’d been standing together drinking beer, when the other guy made the dubious and drunken decision to put his arm around me.In Russia, most of the guys I met were engaged in some sort of dubious import/export business in electronics; the rest were involved in “business” (if you ask what kind of business, and there is a marked pause followed by the word “business,” you should refrain from asking any more questions).
And when I say “provide,” I don’t even necessarily mean in a monetary sense as much as in a paternal one.
And in that strange and romantic moment I thought, “One day I’m going to put this in a story to explain my convoluted relationship with Russian men.” I should preface this story by saying that I am Russian.
I speak the language, I celebrate the holidays, and when I go back to New York after visiting relatives in the motherland and hand my Russian passport to the Russian customs official at border control, watch him quickly flip through it, and then haughtily sneer at me as he asks “, where’s your visa?
Here was a guy protecting my honor, placing himself into bodily harm on my behalf.
It was what I had dreamt of all those years when I read of dueling pistols and men of great action and few words. ” Suddenly, I wished my women’s studies professor from Sarah Lawrence were there.