It’s early October, 1998 in Moscow, smack in the middle of the Asian Contagion fiat money melt-down that swept half the world, including Russia.
I met my first Russian babushka today. I’d seen large numbers of them looking for help — and warmth — in Moscow’s palatial “Metro” subway system because the Russian government is no longer paying the “Social Security” it owes them.
I’d never met one up close and personal though.
I needed bottled water — they tell you not to drink the municipal water in Russia, the Philippines, etc. — unlike other places where they mislead you into thinking it’s OK. So I put on a sweater, and jacket, unlocked both apartment security doors, and pushed the button for the two-man elevator.
I made my way around to our ‘resident’ food shop on the first floor and there she was.
She looked over 70, her face all lines and wrinkles, and although she really was wearing a babushka, she wasn’t shabbily dressed, probably what we would call “middle class.”
She had bought a loaf of Russian white bread. She was fretting — just slightly — about something. Maybe it was the freshness, as she was gently poking the sample loaves on top of the neighboring glass display case.
She pointed at a can with a picture of what looked like corn on the label. The clerk, with no detectable expression, went to the can and my babushka asked her something in Russian.
Now I speak only about three words/phrases of Russian, the most obvious being “das vedanya,” but it was perfectly clear she was asking the price. When the clerk responded, Ms. babushka shook her head gently “nyet,” — my second Russian word/phrase — and pointed to what looked like canned olives. The clerk…