Natasha Talks...

(I hope)...Is it my pipe smoking and indefinable accent? Or is it because I stand behind the cash register, the most authoritative of all American machinery? Anyway, people start with "How do you like it in America?" and "What do you think about democracy in Russia?", proceed with discussions of sexual harassment and violence on TV and end up with questions so personal that I feel like I am running for office. Having a store is very thought provoking, as you see...

I must confess, however, I do love to talk... It started very long ago. I was an ugly fat kid from a poor family that couldn't afford fancy clothes and make-up to compensate for Nature's mistake. The only advantage over pretty blondes was intelligence. The best way I knew to demonstrate my progress in that area was to talk. When I didn't have a listener I talked to myself in the mirror. I talked my way through college and became a teacher to have more authority to talk... And then an interpreter to talk for other people too.

Now, well over the doubts about being good-looking, way over thirty, and over the struggle for the attention of the opposite sex (here, in America, where male attention equals sexual harassment, women seem to be fighting against it, anyway) I could have perfectly well stopped talking ...if only I could!

So, what do you want me to talk about today? Oh please, not "how do you like it in America," Not again... Look, I don't pretend not to understand that this question really implies: "Since living in the former USSR must have been hell, you really feel blessed to be in America, don't you?" Though, it's not really a question, it's a polite statement that leaves me no space to say "no". But I do. But most people don't listen. Who has time to listen anyway? Do YOU?

If you do, let me tell you. Yesterday I found two rotten potatoes in my vegetable box at home (busy woman, no time to cook ). They smelled exactly the same way my next door green grocery store smelled at home. I went there for years and I hated this smell. And here in America with all sweet smelling Krogers at hand, I salted my cooking with tears of nostalgia for the empty-shelved, stinking grocery of my youth. Because it's my youth. It's like missing your 60s in the 90s that belong to your kids.

Oh, yes, if you are still here, yes, yes, I am happy in America. Yes, I can survive Kroger, that completely confused my sense of the seasons and stole the joy of a first strawberry in May, and the Christmas smell of tangerines. I am happy here with my American husband (I had to cross the Ocean to finally get me a perfect one), with my American job (I'd better! It takes all my waking time), with my well Americanized son (running a family business together raises a good one), my friends (both Russian and American, they give me more sense of security than money can buy). The fact that I "can say whatever I want about American government" doesn't make me especially happy. I could blame American government at home too. And American government doesn't care to listen to me anyway... On the contrary, the Soviet Government used to hire the whole KGB staff to keep track of what I thought.... Didn't always agree with me, though. Unless I criticized American Government.

OK, you say, and order a piece of chocolate mousse and another cup of coffee, OK... What is it that you miss besides "the government ear?" OK, I say, enjoy your mousse and listen if you still can... It's the train slowly rattling through the grayish winter landscape...pale railroad tea in thin glasses tinkling against metal holders in railroad rhythm... stories my three cabin mates, complete strangers a few hours ago, tell me about their lives... and overnight passionate kitchen debates with my friends about all important stuff in life except money... and cracks in asphalt pavements that I could still see when I didn't have a car... and flowers, not in mass, but everyone of them, when I still walked and didn't miss details... I miss a juicy Russian tongue, the way its used on the streets all around... and a cup of coffee you can drink SLOWLY... I miss time, the only commodity Wall Mart doesn't sell... I miss luxurious time to think, to live, to reflect, to fill...

I MISS TIME... But don't you?

Yes, nice talking to you, I see that you need to run... And don't worry about your bill, today it's on the house. But you owe me a conversation... Next time you come...