The Russian Babushka

The Russian grandmother is an interesting character. Stories of her antics are often told to the amusement and disbelief of American audiences. These stories, however, are not exaggerated. These women have an endless supply of advice and are "helpful" enough to share it with the nearest American student.

I was examining oranges at a grocery store a few days ago, (Russian produce is far from the painted perfection found in American super markets) looking for the least suspicious fruit when I felt a hand clench my arm. At no taller than five feet, and nearly just as wide, the gray haired women on my arm was not very intimidating. At least she wasn't until she began scolding me, very loudly, in Russian. She demanded to know why I was picking through the fruit and when I tried to explain that I was only looking for the unbruised oranges her fist only closed tighter around my arm.

She proceeded to grab a bag of oranges, put them in my basket, and squeezed my arm more testing manner. She apparently came to the conclusion that I was to thin and began telling me (voice gaining volume,) that I needed to eat more meat. Sensing freedom I nodded in agreement and moved towards the meat counter, away from her. However, once a Russian grandmother has taken on a task she will she it through to the end, and I was no exception.

Dragging me by my elbow, she muscled her way to the front of the line and began rapidly ordering the butchers around. Realizing I was going to end up with half of the counter's contents in my basket, I grabbed a cooked chicken in a final attempt to appease her. She eyeballed it for a minute and decided it was good enough for the moment. Nodding in approval she told me to wear my hat outside because it was very cold, and left without another word.

No thanks necessary I guess.