What Just Happened?

I needed groceries, so I decided to make the most of this evening.

I was scheduled to go to the closing ceremonies of the Golden Mask Festival, but there was only one ticket. Since my good suit still needs to be dry cleaned, I bowed out of the running and thought I'd take in some theater. While looking through the Affisha [or the month's Moscow calendar of theater events] I fell asleep and woke up way too late to go to the theater. So, off I went to the grocery store.

Perekrestok is the grocery store I prefer, though it is not a common favorite amongst us dramaturgs. You see, there are four major grocery stores close to the dorm. The one by the park (which I think is an Universam ... maybe), which is cheap but has a poor selection; Azbuka Vkusa ["Tasty Alphabet" or some derivation there of], which is across the street but is outrageously expensive; Bakhetley, which is across Tverskaya and is upscale but reasonably priced; and Perekrestok, which is about a 10 minute walk from the dorm, has a huge selection and is probably a little cheaper than Bakhetley.

Perekrestok is the store I make trips to once a week to stock up on supplies (except for bread and beer, which I get at an even cheaper store that is behind the Mayakovsky Metro), and Bakhetley is the late-night "I need a snack" sorta' place. Today I made my trip to Perekrestok, and bought fruit at the farmer's market set-up in front of it. A big step for me -- I supremely dislike haggling at markets, and my Russian is not good enough to know if I'm being taken or not.

Before going to the market, I decided to test my skills inside the Perekrestok. This test involved meat. I sallied up to the one of the three meat counters (one for fish, one for sausages, the third for hunks of meat) and carefully read teh cyrillic signs and, without much difficulty, managed to acquire a couple hundred grams of boneless/skinless chicken breast. I wasn't proud, but I was happy it wasn't a complete disaster.

So, then after stocking up on random junk (I'm still kicking a cold, and was a bit feverish, so my basket consisted of organge juice, chicken breasts, chocolate, and crab flavored Lays potato chips, amongst some other small items) I made my way to the cashier and out into the farmer's market.

Things went fine. I found a stand selling lovely gigantic apples. I bought four -- the merchant gave me a 5th for free, I think. What actually transpired was: I said "4 apples, please." He held up a fifth and said something, I grunted with a nod, and he put the 5th apple in the bag. He then recited a price and, me being rather blind (without my glasses), I looked him square in the eyes, sternly nodded with a grunt, and handed him a 500 ruble bill not really knowing what he said, but that the 500 rubles should cover it all. He gave me change - I, DuBois-esque, rely on his kindness in not cheating me.

I continue down the line of merchants and see strawberries. Big, dark red strawberries that Tanya was raving about on Sunday. Ok, I thought ... here we go! I walk up to the booth. The merchant was finishing up with another client and when he was done, I pointed at the strawberries and said, "Those, please." He picked them up, smiled and started talking a bit. I smiled and said "Da, Da ..." nodding my head. He recited the price, and I paid him. Before leaving, he holds up another thing of fruit. They look like orange figs to me -- "Man berries from Azerbaijan" is the jist of what he was selling me.

Man berries from Azerbaijan? I'm intrigued. "They're delicious!" Fine. With a "Da," I purchase my man berries. He then hoists up a long yellow something or other that I couldn't identify and with a laugh I let out a "Fso! [That's all!]" and he laughs. He asks my name "My name is Joe," I reply in Russian. "Joe?" He replies, "My name is Syo!"

I don't know if he was kidding or not, but whatever. I may have been taken for a bit of a ride, but now I am the proud owner of apples, strawberries, and manberries. All are delicious - and, thankfully, I'm not allergic to man berries.

Wouldn't that be horrible? My parents, in Park Ridge, get that terrible phone call: "Mrs. Pindelski? This is Anatoly Smeliansky. I hate to inform you, but, your son, Joe, has had an allergic reaction and is dead." "Dead! Oh my God! What happened?" responds dear mother. "Man berries, Mrs. Pindelski. Your son died from Azerbaijani man berry poisoning."