Smell Like I Sound

Lately I have done two things that were just so delightful, that I couldn’t stop grinning the entire time. These are two completely unrelated events, but they were both under the heading of All-senses-full-alert-boy-am-I-glad-to-be-alive sort of experiences. They probably make for infinitely more boring reading, but I can’t go about complaining (or being perceived as complaining) all the time.

The first was dinner in Moscow. Two weekends ago I accompanied The Spouse there as he had a meeting, thought it would be fun to stay the weekend, and, further, thought it would be boring by himself (aww). Usually I deal with all travel arrangements, but Russia is complicated slightly by the bureaucracy and the language. I got the distinct impression that, since he is such a passionate Russophile (Is that a real word? My spell checker did not object), he wanted to share a little of his enthusiasm with me, and therefore went out of his way to make sure I had an especially nice time. Which paid off for him.

I had done only a little research since I knew we were going to be there only from Friday until Sunday, and I really had no grasp of the city. This was his second trip. He went the day before me, and when I caught up with him in his law firm’s Moscow office, he was chatting with the managing partner about places to eat dinner. Managing Partner mentioned Cafe Pushkin, and my little heart skipped a beat, because this was one of the places I had noticed in the guidebook and thought would be fun (the other was Yeliseev’s Food Hall, a pre-Revolutionary delicatessen, which I also got to see).

This fellow thought it was, as my guidebook said, a good place to take out of town guests, but also a classic Russian experience. And so it was. We called for a reservation, but they said they were not taking further reservations that night. However, that would not mean we could not get a table. So we elected to go early and let The Spouse charm the staff with his Russian skills.

This worked. We found the place, which, while beautiful, is rather unassuming from the outside. There is a small sign, in Cyrillic, and two Beefma types working the door. Having lived in Eastern Europe, we know that the hired muscle is not there to keep B-list clients out, but rather to keep those who might be packing heat out. We just breezed in, and, of course, they did not bat an eye at two middle-aged, American tourists.

The interior on the main floor is furnished as an 18th-century pharmacy, which it used to house. The young woman working as maitre d’ was attractive, charming, and hospitable. Sure, we could have a table. Just a few minutes, please. Would we like check our coats and then sit at the bar?

We hadn’t even finished ordering two glasses of wine when she returned to lead us to our table. As I was sort of casting about for a place to put my purse when the waiter produced, from under the table, the Purse Stool.

That’s when I started to giggle.

I had read about this feature in places like the Russian Tea Room in New York, but I had never actually experienced it myself. I knew what it was as soon as he pulled it out, so I didn’t look too bumbling, I hope, but that was the beginning of our shit-eating-grin evening . . . it was all so charming and cool, and we just couldn’t believe we were there.

The food was Russian and French. We had sampler platter-type dishes, both for the main course and for dessert. I won’t bore you with details, but it was all pretty and tasted nice, and was just so darn fun. The desserts were small, two- or three-bite jewels, each better than the last.

And we topped it off by strolling through Red Square (RED SQUARE!), past the glittering GUM Department Store (I had no idea it was PRETTY!), and down to the jewel box that is St. Basil’s. For a child of the Cold War, it was a synapse-tingling experience.

My second Big Grin Event was not nearly so cultural, although it did have a Russian connection. We are acquainted with an amusing couple here: J is English (although he spent a lot of time in the US) and L is Russian. We cross paths with them from time to time and complain to each other that we should arrange to do something together, but until Saturday, we just never got around to it.

They are funny people, in a good way. He’s got that English dignity and reserve, although tempered by years as an expat. She’s still got that passionate Russian femme fatale thing: perfect English, but a strong accent, lots of dark hair, dark eyes, and an ability to throw together a glamorous evening gown in an afternoon.

Whenever I see her, she says something outrageous, but usually with a grain of truth to it. For example, on Saturday, we went to their house, and were introduced to their kids (charming, precocious boys) and the family dog and cat. When later, after much drinking, I got out of them that they had paid a good amount of money for the cat, I chastised them: “NEVER pay money for a cat! You can pick one up off the street if you need a cat!”

“Bah!” L replied. “You get what you pay for.” In her languid accent, she continued, “You get a cat without a pedigree, it will pee in your shoes.”

Did I laugh? Yes. But, in her defense, the garden-variety cats here in Slovakia are puny: they have little pinheads and scraggly tails. Her cat not only had a glossy black fur coat, a cranium that looked like it held substantial brain, and a sturdy tail, he was also patient with four children who mauled him, carried him around the house, engaged him in hide-and-seek, and probably used him as home base, too. He is a quality cat.

When we had the discussion about arranging Saturday, J mentioned how he thought the four of us should go see Duran Duran on Sunday (yesterday). There are still huge billboards all over town advertising the concert, so after he mentioned it, the idea was in my head, and I spent a lot of time humming Rio. The Spouse and L both sort of deflected the topic whenever it came up, while J and I would wax nostalgic over song lyrics and our misspent youth. By Saturday night, it was clear that only two of us were going to the concert.

But we did it. And it was fun. We’re not as young as we once were, and our pre-concert preparations were undoubtedly different than those we might have made 20 years ago: J confessed that he had taken a nap that afternoon. I had made myself a cup of coffee before going out the door. We lamented the existence of the opening act, as this ensured the concert would end “well past our normal bedtimes.”

But all that aside, it was a great show. The house was packed, the sound was decent, and I had one of those duende experiences where I felt I was outside my body watching the action: a very European concert in Bratislava. People were smoking and taking photos (with their phones and with real digital cameras). Simon LeBon, now the James Spader of rock, looked better than I remembered, although he wore his shirts untucked and fussed with his portable mike system through the entire concert, giving him the appearance of someone whose boxers were, perhaps, riding up in an uncomfortable way.

The boys rocked, yet aside from the standing-room-only mosh pit, no one was dancing: they all sat politely, even in the VIP area, with their hands folded in their laps, just as The Spouse told me they would. J and I had front row seats, just behind the mosh pit (not bad, as he walked in and bought them yesterday afternoon). So I felt a bit inhibited about standing up because there was virtually no slope to the seats in this venue.

But when they came back for an encore, and did Girls On Film and, finally, Rio, I wanted my money’s worth, and I stood up and danced. The whole house finally stood up and danced.

J and I were joking on the way in about how, this being Bratislava, we would be seen and we would be talked about. We had both discussed this with our respective spouses that afternoon. During the show, we scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but because of our seats, it was difficult to see most of the audience. Sure enough, I was walking to the tram when my phone chirped, announcing I had received a text message from another expat woman I know. It read, “I c u r having a good boogie.”

Ah. Bratislava never disappoints.

Pani Babka and the Three Humiliations

Pani Babka is our neighbor. Her real name is Mrs. Benedictinova, or something like that. But we call her Pani Babka, which means Mrs. Grandma. She is in her 80s and the unofficial liaison between our landlord and us.

Here she is, wearing a black, flowered dress, in our backyard.

Aside from feeding Otto the Dog treats, which then causes him to stand and stare at her back door, thereby forgetting to poop in the yard and sometimes pooping in the house instead, she’s a good egg. She does not speak one word of English, but this does not stop her from conducting lengthy, one-sided conversations with me.

She’s got her opinions, but they are amusing and generally demonstrate a kind heart. For example, during the summer while the children and I were gone, she said to The Spouse, “You could offer me a cup of coffee once in a while, you know.” Point taken.

Another time, we were admiring her garden, and she said, “Well, it’s better than just waiting to die.” I came to these understandings partially by having The Spouse translate on the spot and sometimes by gathering a word or two and piecing together a meaning based on context later. But this method has risks, as I will explain.

She often putters in my yard, weeding and watering. It’s sort of like having a critical mother-in-law, except she genuinely seems to like to help out and, at 80-something, it’s better than just waiting to die. She’s got energy in spades. I have seen her in town waiting for the tram. She’s not in physically limited in any way I can see.

Recently, she decided that we needed window blinds. Our house faces west, and it was rather warm during the summer. Further, during a full moon, you can do counted cross stitch in our bedroom: it can be very bright.

So she announced to our landlord, one Pan (Mr.) Varga, that we should have blinds. Fine, he said. Just deal with it and I’ll pay for it. A window guy would come over and measure. Pani Babka, communicated all this information to me, usually at dinner time, probably because she could see that The Spouse (who speaks Slovak) was home. The Spouse’s view was generally, “Aw, man, I just got home . . .” But he always rose to the occasion and chatted politely.

We all agreed that not all windows required blinds: just those on the front of the house, and both sides of our bedroom. Baboo’s room has curtains heavy enough to enable her to sleep late on a sunny morning. She is also on a lower floor, and thus not subject to the blinding rooftop neon of Hotel Blue that shines directly on The Spouse’s side of the bed.

One day she announced that Window Guy would come on Monday afternoon to measure. So when he arrived, I prepared coffee (since I had learned from The Spouse’s faux pas) and put out some cookies. This was a hit. After all the measurements were noted, she and Window Guy sat at my table, drank coffee, munched cookies, and discussed someone’s chemotherapy-gone-awry (again, when I’m my own translator, the facts are anybody’s guess).

A couple of weeks passed, and, again, Pani Babka arrived at my door to announce that "Tomorrow afternoon at 3 o’clock, Window Guy would come to install the new blinds." I would not yet be home from collecting the children at school, so I offered her a key since she clearly intended to supervise the work. This she accepted, and then told me at great length either

1. That I ought to clean the windows first (not bloody likely as I don’t really care)
or
2. Installation would involve cleaning the windows.

Just in case, on Installation Day, I left out a bucket of cleaning supplies as I was more than willing to let Window Guy’s team use mine. I even explained to The Spouse that I was a bit foggy on what had transpired, but that whatever she said, it surely could not be a problem.

On Installation Day, I arrived home, children in tow, and could see from the front yard that most of the blinds were, indeed, installed. They looked good. But when I got inside the house, I realized Pani Babka had her own bucket and rags and cleaning supplies and was almost done washing the last window. This I realized because I offered her coffee and she said, “Not now, I’m working.”

An 80-something woman is cleaning MY windows because I am too slovenly (and probably slatternly) to do it myself. Oh, the shame. I spend several days considering some sort of token of my appreciation: chocolates, flowers, caviar? I had recently given her a bottle of wine. Perhaps she cleaned the windows because of that? Embarrassment consumes me.

Oh, but it gets worse on so many levels.

First, this week I arrived home on Tuesday at an irregular time to find Pani Babka and Pan Varga (and some young man I had never seen before) standing in front of my house considering Pan Varga’s investment.

I’m wondering if they were planning to go in without me, but figure the guy has a right to see what he paid for, and, further, I can make them all coffee.

“Come in,” I say brightly, opening the door, juggling my groceries, forcing Pan Varga and Mystery Youth to leap, as good gentlemen, to my aid. In we go only to discover that the dog has suffered a diarrhea attack from the front door to the back door.

I am mortified. I drop the groceries, pick up a roll of paper kitchen towels, and begin wiping up the floor. Pan Varga, Pani Babka, and Mystery Youth, just stand there, jaws gaping. They decide to leave me to my humiliation and go upstairs to look at the windows.

By the time they return, I have cleaned up the mess and filled a mop bucket with soapy water. While I stand there, with blue rubber gloves on my hands, apologizing for my 15-year-old dog’s delicate digestive tract, Pan Varga offers, not unkindly, to “take him.” Huh? Mystery Youth translates, “He could take him to Eastern Slovakia.”

Ohhh. To a “farm”?

Pani Babka is horrified. “He’s a family dog!” she says is a stage whisper.

They leave. I mop, weep, and consider my dog’s imminent euthanasia.

Second Humiliation
Sylvia is our neighbor on the other side. She’s an attractive, single mother with two small girls. When our babysitter housesat for us in August, Pani Babka gave her the scoop on everyone in the neighborhood, including what she considered the revolving door of men at Sylvia’s house. We have noticed that the hunky and gregarious air traffic controller who arranged for the installation of an air conditioning unit this summer and was a permanent fixture doing yard work on warm days without a shirt, seems strangely absent, lo these many weeks. We mourn his loss, even if Sylvia doesn’t.

Sylvia speaks English reasonably well. She snags me outside my front door the other day. “Mrs. Benedictinova asked me to tell you,” she begins, “That she washed your windows because they were dirty.”

Great. I’m sure now that the entire neighborhood knows not only that my windows are a disgrace, but that my children’s beds aren’t made, ever, and that I have, next to the piles of shoes and dirty gym clothes, an exploded suitcase in the middle of my bedroom floor.

The rest of the speech wasn’t bad at all really. “She doesn’t want any money, but if you ever have clothes your children have outgrown,” she continues, “she has a niece . . . .”

Ah, but this is good news! Do I have clothes! I have long had trouble giving things away. In fact, as Sylvia tells me this news, I have a stack of clothes upstairs that are too small for Skittles.

I gather up the clothes and deliver them immediately to Pani Babka. “I have toys, too!” I confide. She is thrilled. I promise to bring her things as the girls outgrow them, which, I explain, is on a weekly basis. (I just bought Baboo a pair of jeans in size 9-10 as I noticed the last pair, also a recent purchase, is already too short.)

Final Humiliation
This afternoon, Pani Babka waves at me over the back fence. “When can I come over and clean the other child’s windows?” she asks with all sincerity. “I want to thank you for the clothes. And it would look so much prettier.”