Russian Red

And just like that, I found myself in Brighton Beach. My favorite place in all of Brooklyn. I didn't think I'd make it here during this emergency trip back 'home,' but a long-time friend made that happen last night. 

I love this area because it's the one in which I feel the most foreign. Throughout my entire life, strangers have always addressed me in Spanish and Arabic, but last night, a woman spoke to me in Russian. She was trying to lure me into Tatiana, a landmark restaurant and signature piece of Brighton boardwalk real estate. So, I figured I'd play the part. I rolled out a pretty convincing 'ya ni gavaru pa ruski.’ 'I don't speak Russian', to which the lady responded with a disbelieving chuckle. I myself was a in a state of disbelief--I look many things to many people, but Russian isn't one of them. As I began to survey my surroundings, however, I realized why she thought I was Russian. It was my red hair. Almost every woman on that solidly Russian boardwalk had fake red hair. Flaming red. Russian red. Vampire red. In that sense, I fit right in. (It looked like something straight out of the Real Slim Shady music video.😀) One lady with shoulder length, fire engine red hair was wearing a green outfit to match her thick green eyeliner. She looked like Christmas, and I must admit, she dazzled my post-Cairo eyes, which have become accustomed to drab and frump of generic America. Even the older ladies donned the same daring shades of red. And orange, and eggplant, and cherry. The one that captured my attention the most was sitting on a bench wearing a chrome silver winter jacket over shorts, blasting Russian pop from her nineties era boom box. My friend commented that it felt like Moscow. I added 'Soviet' to his observation. Not that either of us experienced the Soviet Union-- it's just the kind of thing you know when you see.