Diplomacy

In Russia, a night-time ride on the elektricka (tram) can remind you, suddenly, of the beauty of being a foreigner, and the host of opportunities that go along with the status. Misha, Sarah and I found three empty seats next to two middle-aged Russian men, who immediately informed us that we were lucky to have chosen them as seat mates. As Russians, we might have ignored them, or started one of the bickering fights that often break out in the railway cars. Instead, we threw ourselves into conversation with them. They began by congratulating Misha on being in the company of such pleasing young women. They asked our reasons for being here, our impressions of Russia. Without being asked, they gave their impressions of America. Sarah told them that Americans love Russia (“Why else would we have come to study here?!?!”) although I doubt they believed the generality of her statement. For a while, before the conversation disintegrated into baser humor, these two men tried convincing Sarah that she should run for congress in America, to get out of Russia and make it home in time for the elections.

This cross-cultural exchange of ideas and political stances lasted until one of the two (the drunker of the two, if they had been drinking) asked how old we were, and if we were married. Unable to believe that we were single and had no plans for marriage, they made sure we knew that it benefits a woman’s physical health to give birth before the age of 25. Upon establishing that I was the older girl, and had only a year left, they urged Misha to take me into the space between the train cars, which they claimed was called, translated directly from Russian, the “Reproductive Box.” The Reproductive Box then became the center of our conversation, and every time we got up to check the train stop, they insisted we make our way to The Box.

Thus a translated extract of our conversation would look something like this:
Sarah or I: “Wait, is this our stop? Which stop is this?”
Russian interlocutor: “You must go get pregnant now in the Box!”
Misha: “These girls have taken this elektrichka a lot of times. They’ve never seen the space between trains used in the way you are suggesting.”
Russian interlocutor: “Do women carry babies for 9 months in America too, or is the term different? HAHA, I mean, maybe in America you only have a baby in you for 7 months, or for 3 months….HAHAHA” (His friend tries to silence him.)
Me, trying to make out signs on street: “I really think this next one is our stop…”
Babushka sitting in the row next to us: “No, girls, your stop is the one after next…”
We sweetly thanked her every time she quietly passed along her information.

As the conversation got more inappropriate, it also got louder. By the time we exited the station, bidding our Russian company farewell and assuring them that they had not offended us, the passengers of our train car had put away their books, taken the head phones out of their ears, and were laughing right along with us. Everyone, it seemed, had been invested in our conversation; they chuckled, stared, and occasionally gaped. We walked home as if we had just exited stage left, stepping out of our role as US representatives and diplomats.

It is true that unexpected and hilarious conversations can sometimes break out on American buses. I have taken part in a few at home. Though I sometimes emerge from these encounters with flushed cheeks and an infusion of life, the inspiration rarely lasts beyond the conversation itself. But when we interact in another language and in another culture, our vulnerabilities our much closer to the surface. So when success comes, when others laugh, or we laugh, when we glide over confusions and explanations, it does not matter so much what we talked about, or whether our companions had a bit of drink on their breath.

It was one of those magical Russia moments that beats walking around Red Square, or going to the theater. (Neither of which we have done, yet.) It appears, though, that our thirst for attention has not been quenched. We came home filled with dreams of performing a series of American and Russian songs on the elektrichka, and we spent the rest of the evening deciding on our repertoire…