Rude?

2561 words

The most telling thing about the cold here is that no one talks about it.  It just is.

Russian storekeepers have a well-deserved reputation for being rude.  If a person doesn’t know exactly the right question to ask, or they don’t know what they want, they might be castigated to the seventh gate of hell.  Yesterday, by coincidence, I experienced several tests of this reputation.  I came away with a mixed impression.

I started the day with a lesson downtown in McDonald’s.  My student told me about a paint supply store near my home where I would find unpainted wooden boxes for my boys to decorate.
When I was at the cashier with my boxes, I met a new kind of rude.  The woman running the cash register wore some outlandishly painted nails.  The base color was a drab, grey/tan oatmeal color; on top were dots of black with speaks of white or silver or something.  I didn’t have a chance to examine them closely because of the unique conversation that ensued.
I said, “You have beautiful nails.” They actually were not beautiful; I was complimenting her willingness to do something different.  I wanted to show my support for her originality.
“Yeah, well, I’m beautiful, too, didn’t you notice?” was her response.  The words were fine and if they were given with some kindness, I would surely have lied and told her that she was also beautiful.  In this case, however, a look as sour as a rotten grapefruit remained solidly plastered on her sullen face.  An attitude of hostility pervaded every bit of her expression.
I considered what I should say as she totaled my purchases.  In my flustered state, I could think of nothing in to say in Russian, so I said, “Well, then, forget I said anything.”  No one around me knew what I was talking about.  For a second, I wanted to stuff my purchases and huff away in protest, but I decided quickly that wouldn’t do me any good, and I’d be making extra work for me and for some other employee of the store.  I continued in English, “I’ve never met anyone so rude.”  Her sour look remained as she put my things in a bag, took my money, and handed me the change.
In hindsight, I can imagine that she was not enjoying her day, and possibly not ANY day at the store.  I wish I had a more forgiving attitude, and that I would be able to keep a smile on my face.  Even if I hadn’t given an insincere compliment, I would have liked to meet her grumpiness with a smile and at least, “Ну, Я желаю вас хорошего дня!” (Well, I wish you a good day!).

I wrote about that event first because it is the most memorable.  If anyone cares to hang around, I have many other interactions all from Friday, 21 December (the day the world was supposed to end).
Just before my contact with the yellow-nailed witch, I stopped someone and asked if they have unpainted boxes and matroshkas.  She turned without a word and led me to the aisle of wooden items.  I said, “Thank you.”
“So…nothing else, then?” and she went off.  She didn’t smile, but she wasn’t rude.  She simply did her job and went back to whatever she was doing.

Before I found the paint supply store, I had asked 3 people for information that led me to the shop with the wooden boxes.  “Excuse me, I’m looking for a shop when they sell paints,” then I made a brushing motion with my hand.  She immediately said “Third floor…wait…5th floor.” She didn’t smile.  As I climbed the stairs, I didn’t see any signs that indicated which floor I was on.  I thought I was on the third but the stairs where I was walking did not continue—just a ceiling.  Understand that I was in a very large shopping mall with dozens of shops on each floor and scads of people around.  The floor I had entered was the ‘food court’ where there was a Sbarros, a KFC, a Subway, and many other countertop restaurants.  I went to a place where it looked like people could drop their kids while they shop.  I asked, “I’m, right now, on which floor?”
“3rd,” the young woman said with a smile.
I turned around and walked to another section.  I did not see any stairs or elevator or escalator leading up.  I was not sure the person on the first floor really knew what I needed so I wanted to ask for more information from someone else.  I looked around until I found a woman in a store who didn’t look busy.  I entered and asked if she knew where I might find some paint supplies.
“5th floor.  You go outside, go to the right and there’s the elevator, but you can also take the stairs.”  Then she walked around the counter and said, “Here, follow me, I’ll show you.”  I graciously accepted this offer of assistance, but it turns out that it was a completely unnecessary move because the stairs was only 20 meters from the store.  It was as if she were talking to a young child.  Hmmmm.  I found the store with the paint products and I was soon face to face with Ms. Grumpy Fingers.

Earlier than this, I had been walking around the shop looking for the paint products shop because my student who had just told me about the shop, was not sure if I should go to the upper floors, or to the basement.  Anyway, as I walked toward a ‘zoomagazine’ (a pet store), I passed a small kiosk that sold electrical supplies and repaired watches.  I remembered that I need a new adapter for my computer so I stood in front of the window.  Through the glass walls I could see exactly what I needed.  I leaned into the shop searching for someone hiding.  Seeing no one, I knocked on the table, and knocked again.  I was not surprised and nearly turned to go when a security guard, I had noticed four security guards in the first 2 minutes, said, “They’re closed.  There’s a graphic (schedule) there in front of you.”  Lo and behold, there was indeed a schedule that showed the person operating the kiosk took 6 breaks of 30 minutes each at regular intervals throughout the day.  If only I had opened my eyes, I would have seen this important information.

My experience with the salespeople in Russia was not at the end for this day.  I took a bus to 74 Bakuminskaya, the place where my next lesson would commence after 60 minutes.  Before going into the security-controlled building, I thought I would get a bit of food.  I had had nothing to eat since I finished the 2 bananas and four mandarins that I had in my bag.  I saw some oranges that looked nice in a small shop near #74.  The shop works in the old Soviet way where the customer views the items for sale in glass cabinets, and has to ask the sales person to retrieve everything.  I waited patiently as two people were served by one of the two shop assistants—she had to run from side to side in the store, around the u-shaped glass cabinets to get various items.  As I stood there, the young woman, Olga, told me that I could go to the OTHER shop assistant, on the other side of the shop.
“But I want four oranges,” I said.  The oranges were on HER side of the shop.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Olga answered.  She wanted me to turn around, wait in the other line on the other side of the store and ask the other assistant to walk all the way around the store, squeezing past Olga, get a few oranges, and then take them back to the other side for weighing.  This seemed silly to me so I stood my ground.
Soon Olga finished up with the current customer and I learned why she was so eager to have me put more work onto her colleague.  Instead of asking me what I needed, she went directly to the microwave where she was heating some soup, carefully removed the brim-full container, moved to a table nearby and began to eat.  I left the shop.  My first act of defiance of the day.

I turned left outside the little shop and walked past 74 B-skaya—I wasn't sure how far I would have to walk before coming to a food shop, but I had plenty of time.  Also, I knew there was a good place that sold Central Asian pastries some distance away.  If I didn’t find anything, at least I could go there.  Pretty soon, I found a shop.  This also operated in the old Soviet style with each one of 10 people doing their own very limited bit of work in one small area of the shop.  Soon after entering, I saw to my enjoyment that they sold everything I wanted.  There was fruit, vegetables, bread, etc—all looking quite healthy.  The only problem now was finding someone to sell me something.  Behind the glass case of oranges, cheese, and cucumbers, there was no one.  I peered over the case looking to the right and left, wondering if someone might be hiding.  Seeing no one, I turned around to the other side of the aisle to see an area of prepared salads.  A woman with Central Asian features was crouched low on a three-legged stool, trying to be invisible  as she ate something from a wrapped package.
I motioned to the fruit behind me and said, “Is anyone working there?”  Totally unconcerned, she lowered the corners of her mouth, shrugged her shoulders and continued eating.
I left the front part of the room and went through the opening in the wall to the bread products and candy department.  I saw a small, round pastry with cottage cheese/curds in the middle.  I peered over the case here to find no one.  Behind me, there was someone standing among several containers of candy doing nothing, looking bored.  Behind another glass case there were two people having a sometimes heated discussion—one was a salesperson seeming to be in charge of using the scale that they used to weigh candy, the other was dressed in outdoor clothing like he had just come from outside.  I looked back to the bread department where I’d found the pastry, hoping that someone might have materialized in the few minutes my back had been turned.  No such luck.  I went back to the fruit.  I had seen two guys sitting at stools at the end of the fish department which was right next to the fruit department.  They were drinking tea.  Standing near them a woman was helping a customer buy some fish.  Motioning in the direction of the fruit, I called out in their general direction, “Is anyone working here?”  No answer until I turned to leave the store.
Then the woman said, “Man!! What do you want?  Do you want fish or vegetables?”
I turned, “Vegetables.  I want some fruit.”
“SVETA!!” she called out toward the doorway leading to the back somewhere.  By this time, I was pretty annoyed and I wasn't ready to wait a long time.  If Sveta had some out quickly from the back, I would lovingly have asked her to give me a few oranges, but she didn’t come so I walked out saying, “Spasiba! (Thank you).”  My second attempt at behaviour modification.

So I continued down the street toward the Central Asian food.  This was a shop with a small window that opened directly onto the street.  Therefore, when you are waiting in line, you are freezing your butt off in the -18°C weather.  There were only a couple guys in line so I didn’t have to wait long.  When I appeared at the window, the woman inside smiled broadly.  She remembered me from before because I had come to the window and asked, “Do you have samsas (a Kazakh/Kyrgyz dumpling-type thing)?”
On the day I gave her that question, she was speechless because samsas comprise the majority of their sales. She thought I was having her on, or acting stupid.  She soon learned that it was no act.  “Yes, of course,” she answered after turning to her co-worker toiling behind a stove.  At that time, I had asked where she was from—Kyrgyzstan.
“Oh!” I answered, “I've been there several times.  I lived in Kazakhstan for eight years.” She turned with a nod and told me the woman behind her was from Kazakhstan.
On this cold day, I said I wanted flat bread with cheese inside.
“Only cheese?” she asked.
“What else is there?”
“With greens…”
“Oh, yes.  Cheese and greens.  And a samsa with pumpkin, please.”
As she was wrapping the pastries, I noticed her fingernails.  They were decorated with red and silver on a base of green.  They were prettier than the ones I had complimented earlier.  Entirely undaunted by my earlier failure to inspire international friendship, I said, “You have beautiful nails.”
“Thank you,” she said with a big smile. “That will be 70 rubles.”  I told her about complimenting the yellow-nailed sourpuss, and I imitated the woman’s voice.  The whole ‘kitchen’ behind her cracked up.

The sales-person experiences continued as I neared home after the lesson.  Not far from our house, my flat mate Ira and I went into a food store to buy cucumbers, bread for sandwiches, peppers, and sandwich sauce.  The style of THIS store is more like Americans would be used to.  We go in, find everything on our own and bring it to the check-out line.  I had put all of our items on the belt and needed to deposit the basket in which I had collected everything.  Behind me was a check-out line that was not operating.  I started to put the basket on the floor because I didn’t see anywhere else.
The check-out lady said, “Kooda?!? Kooda?!?”  (To where? To where?)  I turned to see her just as she motioned to a table where people were filling their bags and depositing their baskets.  As she did this, she smiled!!  I was amazed.  I would have expected her to have a sour attitude and be extremely unhappy.  Once I paid for everything, she even said, “Thank you.”  It was the very first time in all the months I’ve been here that I heard such a phrase from a salesperson.
As we were walking home, I told Ira about the lady saying thank you and smiling.  She said that whenever people look at me, they will smile.  I let this small slam lie on the ground like a frozen fish.  I often have a unique look—just then, I realized that all the while I was in the store, I had not untied the hood from my sweatshirt, nor the hood from the lining of my leather jacket.  Both hoods were pulled around a thick, blue stocking hat with a DFS (Don’s Farm Supply, Newell, Iowa) patch.  This was a fashion faux pas that would never fly if done by a native in a place like Russia.  There are some advantages to life as a foreigner.