June 18, 2015
Last week I was on a Caribbean cruise. It was amazing. A totally different world, in fact. Unless you are from my part of Brooklyn. I found that Brooklyn exists down in the islands too.
The first day on the ship there was a photo op with some DreamWorks characters. I was in line with my family to have my picture taken with some sort of giant hippo creature when the two senior citizens in front of us turned around and asked us a question. At least I think that’s what they did.
They were two women, approximately 670 years old (combined) and were wearing outfits that I still see in fevered dreams when no amount of rum will wash away the memories. Leopard spandex stretched over their obese, 4-foot frames. Tight, tight animal print sleeveless tops, with their batwing flabby arms whacking into their sides with meaty thwaps. Enough gold jewelry around their necks and jammed on their sausage fingers to pay off my mortgage. And don’t ask about the makeup. Please. I’m trying to block it all out. And of course they wanted to have a conversation with us. In Russian.
They kind of looked like this, but stockier.
After I got over my shock and revulsion and recovered my poise, I said something eloquent and pithy like “uh, I don’t understand…” They switched to heavily accented English.
“Vayre you from?”
I had no idea then and no idea now why they picked us out, but I do tend to get picked out by odd strangers for their delusional conversations from time to time. I must have that kind of face, which is why I need grow a thick beard.
“Uh, I’m from Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn! Brooklyn! Brighton Beach!” They got very excited, jabbered to each other, and kept pointing at me. And since I was only a couple of feet away they were nearly jabbing me in the belly. “Brighton Beach! Brighton Beach!”
“Yeah, I don’t live there.” And even if I did, I’d still tell them I didn’t live there for fear they’d decide to look me up and jab me some more back on dry land.
“You shood go! Good! Very good! Call it Little Russia!”
I’ve been there. Very good it is not. Brighton Beach is where I encountered The World’s Largest Pile of Garbage, among other things. And while it also has a beach, the comparison to any Caribbean beach begins and ends there. And if Little Russia is anything like Big Russia, then it’s no wonder that Putin spends so much time wrestling bears.
“Yeah,” I said through a smile that was queasy from reasons other than the sea. “Lots of Russians,” I helpfully confirmed.
Then, mercifully, it was the women’s turn to get their pictures taken, and they moved on.
After I had my pictures taken with a person in a hippo costume that looked very normal compared to the specimens I was just speaking with, I made sure to go in the opposite direction.
TO BE CONTINUED in Part 2, in which I travel 700 miles just to meet some people who live 2 blocks away from me.
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