first impressions

You probably don't remember the first time we met. 

It was about 15 years ago in Minsk.  An ice-storm had indefinitely grounded all flights, and all area hotels were filled to capacity.  You have to remember the crowded air terminals; people sleeping on floors and curled up uncomfortably in molded plastic seats. 

I was on a local shuttle flight from Russia to the Ukraine.  Getting grounded halfway was a frustration.  I was so close to my final destination.  I wanted to crawl into my own bed for a change but instead found myself in a cold waiting area littered with other stranded transients.

Sleeping in the terminal was impossible.  There was a little boy crying a few seats away from me, and an old woman whose snore sounded like a whinny.  I figured it best to be social and removed myself to the bar.

You must remember the bar at least. 

I was surprised at the number of Americans.  As he passed me whatever that beer was that was left on tap, the bartender said that they were all a part of a film crew.  Apparently some sort of movie had been shot in the countryside outside of the city. 

I maneuvered myself away from the bar, allowing another patron to take my spot and place an order.  The crowd pressed as I forged a path to a small side table where I recognized a stewardess from my grounded flight. 

As I made my way, balancing my very full glass, I smiled at the familiar buzz of my home language.  Passing close to tables filled with celebrating men and women I heard snippets of shop talk and gossip from the film crew.  It was both a thrill and a comfort to recognize varied American accents talking in person, and not from a static filled radio in my apartment.

A hand on my thigh was a bit of a shock, and to see your sly smile brought a brief rush of excitement, but that was sadly crushed by the leering and mutilated Russian pickup line that followed.  All could have been well, if my retreat had been taken in stride.  It was the face of annoyed injury that followed that burns still.  Again a tangle of mutilated Russian, only then meant to insult and save face in front of drunks.

It was the first time I saw American arrogance as an outsider. 

Perhaps it's silly of me to label it American arrogance.  It's a situation that happens every night in every bar in every country in the world.  But at that moment of pining for home, I was stung by the cruelty of what I had left behind.