Privyet, my little Kartoshkas! I've been hinting for a while that I would tell you about why Russia and I do not get along. The title of this post means "Russia hates me so I hate Russia," and I consider this a very accurate statement of the situation. In the course of my life I have had to travel to Russia three times, which was at least four times too many. Yes, I said that right - Russia has screwed me over so consistently that I think I deserve not just my lost time back, but an extra free trip to somewhere awesome. Or really, anywhere that's not Russia - I would take Siberia, industrial New Jersey, you name it. My beef with Russia is as fat as a Kobe cow, having been constantly massaged by sociopaths and force-fed a beer brewed from pure spite. I have so many "Listen to what those Russian a**holes did to me" stories that I don't even want to cram them into one post. So I hereby start a "Commie Bastard Story Hour" mini-series. This segment is entitled:
Not-So-Innocent Bystanders
The scene: St. Petersburg, Russia. Winter 2007. I had been really excited for this trip, especially since right beforehand I was in Gdansk, Poland - which up to that point had been my least favorite place in the world. Things changed so quickly; let me tell you why. My mother had come along, and we got there a few days early so we had time to tour around. Our first day, we decided to go visit the crown jewel of St. Pete, namely the Church on Spilled Blood. Clearly that name should have warned me off - I mean seriously, who are you kidding people? - but I was really excited because of those awesome onion domes, plus there's a Russian knick-knack market right nearby. Russian tourism highlights: check and check.
So, Momster and I made it through the St. Petersburg subway system, despite having had several unfriendly interchanges with hotel staff, subway staff, and convenience store clerks, all of whom seemed offended that we wanted to pay them money and then receive a good or service in exchange. Paaaardon me, surly old Russian man, for trying to pay you for that bottle of water. I didn't realize speaking slash existing was considered rude in your society. By the time we got back out onto the snow-covered Russian streets, I was already beginning to regret learning the Cyrillic alphabet so I could find my way around. Clearly it would have been better to just hide out in the hotel and eat Top Ramen.
Unfortunately the advantage of hindsight is of no use without being combined with the ability to time travel. One day, one day. Which leaves us freezing and disoriented on a street corner trying to find our way to the aforementioned church. (Side note: isn't aforementioned the coolest word? I like mentioning things just so that later I can refer to them as aforementioned.) I was trying to read the map, when I felt a sharp pain on my leg. I looked around, and I saw an old man with a cane who had clearly just whacked me as hard as his feeble little borscht-and-vodka-fueled arms could manage. I foolishly assumed that this was some sort of mistake, and that as I made eye contact I would get some sort of sheepish apology. (Remember, this is BEFORE Russia destroyed all optimism and faith in humanity in my soul) Instead, he narrowed his eyes and growled at me, all while hobbling slowly past. And he maintained eye contact until his head was rotated by approximately 175 degrees.
The only conclusion I could reasonably come to was that this man hated maps. Or women. Or street corners. Or potentially some lethal combination of these factors. OR, what is most likely and infinitely sadder, is that he just hated Russia. So much so that he would take his anger out on an innocent and stunningly beautiful young bystander, prior to going home and drinking himself to death. I would say that I pity him and therefore forgive Russia for this incident, but when you hear the rest of my tales of woe, you will see why that is not the case. Until next time!
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