Da, mo-fo

Since yesterday Hell was visiting New York, I decided to go to the beach. I’m cheap, so I went to Brighton Beach instead of paying thirty bucks roundtrip to take the LIRR somewhere nicer. Actually, I kind of like Brighton Beach. It’s Little Odessa, and practically everything is Russian as soon as you get off the Q train. It’s rather surreal to me, who grew up going to picturesque New England beaches with sand dunes and clam shacks, to see apartment buildings opposite the beach. But I do like the fried stuffed dough things (I won’t even try the Anglo spelling here) you can buy for a dollar. Those are tasty.

Anyway, whenever I go to Brighton Beach by myself, someone mistakes me for Russian. I don’t know if this happens to other people. Actually, the first time was this weird old dude when I was waiting for the Q at Union Square.

Weird Old Guy: You look Russian.

Me: Uh. I’m not Russian.

Weird Old Guy: Where are you from?

Me: I’mgettingonthetrainnowstoptalkingtomenowbye.

Then later, at the beach, this group of people start pointing at something and jabbering away in what I assume is Russian. (Two guys and a girl, and incidentally, the girl had some of the hairiest calves I’ve seen on a XX carrier). I realize they are, in fact, talking to me.

Me: Pardon?

Looks of surprise all around, and what I can only assume is “She is not Russian?!” Turns out they were curious about my ipod shuffle. (Which I love, incidentally.) Apparently only one of the spoke (limited) English, so it was a very short conversation.

So yeah. Pass the vodka. I’m gonna go shake the family tree and see if any Russkies fall out.