Anyone who's been to Eastern Europe knows the babushka. Literally, "grandmother", in Russian, this is very much a separate class of people. Their lives have been trying and tragic, and their experiences have made them self-appointed order-keepers in society. They force young people to give up their seats on buses, scold kids for rollerblading on the street, and dish out advice to willing and unwilling ears alike.
I left my dorm room in search of a small grocery store that I had heard was located in the basement of a nearby apartment building. I needed butter. Every door in every apartment building looks like every other door, small food stores don't need to advertise their presence, the people who wander the sidewalks around these buildings are locals. And locals know every possible place to buy butter. I am a "local", I have lived here for 7 months, but I've never been to this particular store.
Not one, but two babushkas sit on a bench under a tree. I explain my predicament and ask about the rumored store. Babushka One tells me the nearest store is 10 minutes in the direction of the bus stop. No, no, interrupts Babushka Two, there is a store three buildings down. The two ends of the bench continue their loud disagreement, and I wander off towards the building indicated by Number Two.
Success. I buy butter and ten eggs, which the grocer carefully place into an opaque plastic bag, no cardboard carton. I gingerly make my way back to my dorm, passing by the still arguing bench (though the subject matter has changed).
Babushka Two asks if I found the store, smiling smugly, since it's obvious that I did. But Babushka One doesn't notice that she's lost the debate. "Are those eggs?" she stares at my plastic bag, "Can I have one egg? For my daughter, she's pregnant." My mind didn't have time to process what she had said before my hand reached into my bag for an egg.
I left my dorm room in search of a small grocery store that I had heard was located in the basement of a nearby apartment building. I needed butter. Every door in every apartment building looks like every other door, small food stores don't need to advertise their presence, the people who wander the sidewalks around these buildings are locals. And locals know every possible place to buy butter. I am a "local", I have lived here for 7 months, but I've never been to this particular store.
Not one, but two babushkas sit on a bench under a tree. I explain my predicament and ask about the rumored store. Babushka One tells me the nearest store is 10 minutes in the direction of the bus stop. No, no, interrupts Babushka Two, there is a store three buildings down. The two ends of the bench continue their loud disagreement, and I wander off towards the building indicated by Number Two.
Success. I buy butter and ten eggs, which the grocer carefully place into an opaque plastic bag, no cardboard carton. I gingerly make my way back to my dorm, passing by the still arguing bench (though the subject matter has changed).
Babushka Two asks if I found the store, smiling smugly, since it's obvious that I did. But Babushka One doesn't notice that she's lost the debate. "Are those eggs?" she stares at my plastic bag, "Can I have one egg? For my daughter, she's pregnant." My mind didn't have time to process what she had said before my hand reached into my bag for an egg.
Your blog needs more stuff
ReplyDelete