But there is one major flaw. Russian men. Sure there are hunks like Dima Bilan with his sexy mullet, and of course, Putin and his KGB defined frame. But for the most part, Russian men are greasy, Guido pervs. Gelled hair, man purses, club shirts unbuttoned to show off chest hair, gold chains, you know, typical Eastern European/New Jersey fashion. And they don’t take n’yet for an answer.

When I was living in Peter, I was pretty much immune to their advances. The times I stuck out as an American was because I was wearing a lot more clothing than the Russian woman, who dressed like whores. So much for the study abroad office’s advice on dressing modestly in other cultures. Wearing a bra was a dead giveaway that I was foreign. Guys who did try to pick me up lost out because of my poor language abilities. They’d ask me if I smoked, and not understanding, I’d say I don’t know in a perfect accent (I’d had a lot of practice). This would just confuse them and they would walk away. Then there was the guys who lived in my dorm. And everyday as they stood outside smoking 98 cent a pack Marlboro reds they’d ask me the same question, which I didn’t understand either. That is, until my Russian roommate filled me in on the sex vocabulary. The worst of it was the guy who kept talking to me as I pulled an allnighter at an internet cafe. He showed up outside my dorm three or four times wanting to go to a movie.

I’d forgotten how skeevy they were until I met some on Saturday night. That’s right, they’re invading the Q.C. I was at Brick and Barrel with Skylar and friends when a man approached me and asked me where I was from. He was wearing a black short sleeve button up and a thick gold chain. His name is Misha. He told me I looked European, which is either an incredible compliment or an incredible insult. He said his friend, Igor, who was hanging creepily on the bar, wanted to meet me. I asked where he was from. “The former Soviet Union.” (This is what every Russian you meet will say, because they don’t want to confuse you when they talk about their home town of Kreepipervistan.) Misha is from the Ukraine. I called him a little Russian. He was offended. Igor thought it was hilarious.

Being several drinks into the evening, I was excited to test out my Russian language skills. I managed “hello”, “how are you” and “my name is Meck“. I consider it a victory. I asked them who they are voting for. They laughed at me. They offered to buy me a shot. I asked what they were drinking. “Vodka”. They couldn’t be anymore stereotypical. I took the shot. They immediately wanted to purchase me another one. Note: never go shot for shot with a Russian unless you are prepared to kill the bottle. I told them no, but they ordered it anyway.

Igor wanted my phone number. “Only if I can say it in Russian.” I couldn’t remember the difference between 9 and 10. I kept telling him the last four digits of my phone number are 6-3-10-1. He thought I was playing him. I corrected myself but its all the same because I was using a fake number. He was on to me. He wanted to call me right then and see his number show up on my phone. Not a chance. He thought I was being charming. He invited me to the apartment he shares with his creepy friend. I politely declined. He asked again. I ran away.

Thirty minutes later I was tired from dancing and found a place to sit down. My Russian friends immediately surrounded my chair. They want me and Skylar to go to their apartment afterwards. I told them no repeatedly. I tried it in English and Russian. They said they liked my accent. “I’m still not changing my mind.” Ok then, they want to follow us wherever we go when we leave. “N’yet.”

Igor asked me out on a date. I wanted to get rid of him so I told him “perhaps” in Russian (mostly I was just excited about knowing how to say “perhaps” in Russian) He asked what kind of food I like. I tell him I like crepes with sour cream and black caviar. This would be like telling a Hispanic person who is asking you out that you want to go get tacos. He ate it up. I promised that I would pick up when he calls.

Paka, dear comrade.

Pay attention, fellas. Here is a list of perfectly acceptable ways to refer to the toilet:

-bathroom
-restroom
-head

Hell, I would even prefer “Excuse me, Darlin, I need to take a piss” over “Little Boys Room”. Yick.