the russian of spaulding avenue
The neighborhood the other evening and a woman coming towards me took one look at my face and immediately looked relieved to see me and started speaking to me in Russian. She was looking for a place. She needed directions. This is about all I could get from what she was saying since I do not speak Russian.
Afterwards I thought, Wow, my cheekbones must really be looking Slavic tonight. But today I went for a walk and went into this little store in the neighborhood and it is all Russian. Russian foods. Russian shop keepers. Russian clerks. Russian shoppers. So it was not my cheekbones. Or maybe some of it was my cheekbones, but also, this little shop is flourishing so a lot of Russian people must live nearby.
In the shop, I cannot be mistaken for a Russian. I towered over the women. And some of the men. It is clear in a crowd of Russians I come from some other barbarian stock.
The shop had good strawberries. The neighborhood smells like honeysuckle. It was early evening. People were walking their dogs. I took my Russian strawberries home. I met a funny Dalmation.