Monday, February 2, 2009


Today I met old French couple in Japanese restaurant. It was quiet and nice before they got in. Every one had nice conversations and it was very peaceful . And then they came in and a woman, dressed like a Barbi doll (only she was like 80 years old) in a bright blue dress, with a huge blue shining hair clip and broken blue purse, smelling like naphthalin, started screaming very loud. They sit by me at the counter and I had to move, because I couldn't stand the smell the the big voice. In Russia they each us to be polite with old people, and usually I'm, but after hearing her loud words to the Japanese chef, that Japanese food is #2 after French food, I turned to her and said: I think that Japanese food is #1. Woman said she can hate me for saying that and told me that I must be never been to France. I said that I have been to France, but I still like Japanese food because it's healthier. Then she asked me where am I from and I said I'm from Russia. Her ancestors also were from Russia and immigrated to France 110 years ago. She also mentioned she went somewhere with Nuriev and that now she and her husband live in Caribbean islands and in Paris half a year. Then she translated that her husband would be happy to have chopstick lesson (how to use it) in my house. She is coming too - she said. But he was so ugly that it was just unbelievable for me to hear that.  I don't know French culture and maybe they jock like that in France, but I didn't find it funny. Old people don't talk like that to young people in Russia. Then they said they will be back for dinner at that restaurant tomorrow. I wished them good night. The Japanese chef didn't like them ether. They asked me what I do and I told them: I make movies.  Their son also made movies somewhere in Chili. They started to talk that it would be nice if we (me and their son) meet. I had to get a check. My peaceful happy dinner was ruined. I liked them in a way, but they were too much... selfish...  And they hated Communists. And I didn't like that. They wanted to take photo with me, as I was leaving, but I said - no. Her name was Natasha. Usual Russian name. Perhaps we meet again one day. I wonder how many Natasha's are born in the immigrants families after the Revolution... And how they all doing now....

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