The Sweet and the Unsavory

(or, Close Encounters of the Unkind Kind)

Click here to Read the Series Introduction

We were warned.

As part of the orientation for our time in Russia, we heard a talk about blending in. The purpose of being there was to practice and improve our Russian language skills, to mix with Russians, to immerse ourselves in Russian daily life and culture. It seemed logical that the best way to do that was to not stand out so much, to not present ourselves openly as outsiders. It would give us access to more things than the tour bus crowds might get, while still providing us a bit of protection.

It’s not like we were spies. But if we made it too obvious that we were Americans, i.e. those who could afford to travel to Russia from far away, it could well be concluded that we were carrying cameras or other valuables, maybe even cash. As in any city anywhere, there would be people on the lookout, hoping to find a way to relieve us of that; after all, it was just things we had, things that we could later replace. Moscow was not unique in this; such people lived in every city around the globe, even in our own home towns. But we didn’t know Moscow, and a few tips would be helpful.

Don’t smile. This didn’t mean to act rude, though there was precedent if we did; the “Ugly American” was known around the world, and had been for many years. But we shouldn’t do what came naturally in public back home: to smile at people we didn’t know for trivial things like holding a door, completing a transaction, or even just passing on the sidewalk. More than almost anyone else, Americans gave smiles to anyone for any reason. To some outsiders, it made us look like idiots, or at least children; to others, it was a tipoff that we weren’t regular pedestrians or commuters, but people worth taking advantage of. So we would wear blank faces in public. Don’t look angry or disapproving, just…ordinary. Blend in.

Don’t speak English in public, at least not loudly. This was common sense; and besides, weren’t we trying to practice our skills in Russian as much as possible? Doing so would pleasantly surprise the locals (because “Ugly Americans” speak only one language, you know, and expect to use it everywhere), and if we stumbled a bit, they’d be happy to help. During my time in Moscow, I found this to be true. At a bookstore (which itself will merit its own essay), I asked a cashier where I could find a place to buy sheet music and even small musical instruments. With delight, she told me of a shop called Noty (“Notes”), and gave me very clear directions for getting there. It was diplomacy at the personal level, and definitely not “ugly.”

Keep any valuables close, or out of sight. Again, these are wise words even in one’s own home town. We were given scenarios in which someone would distract us while an accomplice grabbed a camera or backpack, or even slit open the latter with a knife to remove its contents. Fighting back against this was potentially dangerous, so the best thing was to avoid giving anyone temptation. Hold tight to bags or backpacks, make use of a fanny pack (secured and worn on the front, of course) or even a money belt under your clothing if you have to carry around your passport or a lot of cash. I had obtained one of these back home, and found it useful, though once in place it was inconvenient to get access to. So I ended up using it mostly for carrying items I didn’t want to leave in the hotel room, i.e. passport or cash. Otherwise, I carried a slightly battered, dull blue Lands’ End bag with a shoulder strap. It was my constant companion, and served me well throughout my time in Russia.

Other advice was nothing new: avoid traveling alone, duck into shops or nearby hotels if you felt uneasy on the street, stay in safe neighborhoods. The last one was a challenge, because the neighborhoods in Moscow mostly looked the same to me, with gray pavement, gray streets, lots of pedestrians and mass transit. Moscow’s population at that time was about seven million, the largest city I’d ever visited.

Lastly, we were told about the tsygane. I won’t use the actual word common to English speakers, beginning with G, because it’s pejorative, and etymologically inaccurate anyway. Those among the students who had already been to Russia or elsewhere in Europe nodded their heads. The tsygane were Roma, a wandering people. Russian popular culture celebrated the Roma for lively music and dancing, colorful clothes, and art that they would sell to make a living as they traveled. But the modern Russian image was of families of thieves, mostly children who came into the city and would follow unsuspecting tourists until they could grab something and then disappear into the crowd. Native Russians saw them as a nuisance and were wary by nature. Everyone else, beware.

The implied (well, overt) racism of this made me uncomfortable, but I took heed, since this was meant for my well-being in an unfamiliar environment. I was forewarned.

*****

During my five-week stay in Russia, I had two major encounters with the tsygane. I’ll relate them in reverse order of occurrence, for reasons I hope will become clear.

• It was a warm afternoon in early August, the day before we would fly out of Moscow. My companion Dawn and I were walking through a district of shops and cafes off Red Square. We were looking at a map to find an address I had for a music store. The street was a little crowded, but not more so than I was accustomed to by then.

Publicly consulting a map was our first cardinal sin, and no doubt we compounded it by speaking English. That’s when the kids started to appear.

Tsygane kids seem to multiply exponentially in short time; when the first one finds you, it seems only seconds before there are two, then five, then twelve. They surrounded us, making a circle that started to contract. 

Dawn and I quickly headed for the door of the nearest business. We were stopped by a sign saying that the shop was closed for pereryv, the two-hour lunch break common in Russia and other European countries. By my watch, there was still over an hour left. I quickly realized that likely every door on the street would have a similar sign.

By this time several woman in colorful scarves had joined the kids. And like the whole incident, what came next happened quickly. 

One of the women approached me, shouted something in what I assume was Romani, and jammed a hand into the left hip pocket of my jeans, where she correctly deduced I kept my wallet. My next action was an unpredictable one, as much to me as to her, but it worked: I suddenly collapsed and fell to the ground, bending at the hip so that the woman had to withdraw her hand before I broke her knuckles. My memory is fuzzy, but it’s possible that I curled up somewhat into a ball. I thought later of the story of the fox and the hedgehog; if I’d ever doubted which one I was, I doubted no more.

I saw the woman back off in surprise, and was relieved to see that she didn’t reach for a knife. Then I turned to look at Dawn.

Several boys in the group, seemingly about twelve years old, were reaching to unbuckle Dawn’s fanny pack. One started tugging at her shirt, presumably to look for a money belt; immediately Dawn’s training (or instincts) as a young American woman took over, and she backhanded the kid, sending him flying.

The elapsed time was probably less than thirty seconds, but measured by my heart rate, it seemed a lot longer.

The next moment we were literally rescued by the cavalry, in the form of two young Russian men, blond haired and very large, who saw our predicament and ran over. The woman and kids, now lacking any advantage, scattered. The young men helped me to my feet, made sure that Dawn and I were both all right, and even asked us not to think badly about their country as visitors. We returned directly to the safety of the Hotel Metallurg, quite naturally a bit freaked out. 

For her part, Dawn later said that she saw the incident as “empowering,” having successfully defended herself with no net loss of possessions or health. And we both had a good story to tell back home.

• The other incident happened in Red Square, probably in my first week in Moscow. I was walking by myself; that was my usual m.o. back home, but I had been warned, and the fact that I hadn’t made friends yet was no excuse. Red Square has the Kremlin, Lenin’s Mausoleum (closed that day), the massive GUM store, and of course, St. Basil’s Cathedral, a poster of which already adorned my classroom wall back home. I kept my camera, a not-too-bulky Konica, stashed in my blue shoulder bag, figuring I could keep it hidden until just before I was ready to aim and shoot. (Why does that last sentence make me think of a Klingon warbird?)

Amid the crowds, and the tables that were set up as impromptu kiosks selling everything from jewelry to matryoshka dolls to books, I heard the faint sound of music. Following my ears, I reached a little boy in a colorful cap playing a concertina. 

I’m a sucker for street musicians, and all the more so with this child. I listened to him for a little while, then pulled out of my pocket a 100-ruble note and put it in the bag in front of him. At the exchange rate in the summer of 1994, 100 rubles was worth about five cents, so it was almost literally nothing to me, but it could be a sizable portion of a day’s income for his family. I then pulled out the trusty Konica and snapped the picture that you see above.

The boy gave me a big smile, and I smiled back and walked away. I hadn’t gotten more than a few meters, when suddenly I was stopped in my tracks by a child. Then two, then five, then more. They all looked at me intently, and almost in unison said, “Den’gi, den’gi, den’gi!” (Money! Money! Money!”) This was my first close-up encounter with tsygane. 

They had probably seen me put the bill in the musician kid’s bag, and it’s possible that I even still had the camera out. I reached into the outer pocket of my shoulder bag and pulled out some…balloons. If I was thinking at all, I must have thought, “Hey, it might work, or at least stall for time.” I handed a couple each to several of the kids directly in front of me. I think one of the boys pocketed his, but the others just dropped them on the ground and started chanting again. By this time I had noticed a man selling books from a table about three paces behind me, and I eased my way back, hoping to get his attention while not taking my eyes off those kids. 

Well, it worked. Suddenly the man leapt from behind his table, confronted the whole group of kids, and literally (and I do mean literally) kicked some of them away. They all scattered in what seems to be a practiced maneuver. The man then turned to me and in no uncertain tones told me I should never talk to such kids, never give them money or anything else, stay away from them at all costs. I rather shakily thanked him, made sure that my camera was securely stashed in my bag, and walked away.

Suddenly, there was a tug at my shirt. I’m sure my heart stopped. I turned, looked down, and saw one child there, who after a moment I recognized as the boy with the concertina. He was saying something to me, softly and rather shyly, and soon I realized that he was asking for a balloon. I gave him several. He thanked me and ran back to his post to resume his music.

Considering how I got myself into these situations, bungled my way through, and relied on luck (and the kindness of strangers) to see me through, am I embarrassed to tell these stories? Obviously not. But as shaken as I was, in the time between these two incidents I didn’t hesitate to venture out again into the streets, metro, shops, and even parks of Moscow. Often I was alone (!), but increasingly I traveled with Dawn or others, immersing ourselves in the life and language we had traveled far to experience. We were not just tourists, we were students, and I for one wanted to make the most of this exotic open classroom while I could.

•Дополнении•

• This essay provided a challenge I hadn’t encountered before: how do you describe an entire group of people when almost every recognizable name for them is considered offensive? At the time these events took place, everyone I knew was comfortable with using the term “Gypsy.” But now, particularly when I’m putting my words out for the world to see attached to my name, that’s no longer acceptable to me. Etymologically, it refers to Egypt, which is not at all the original homeland of the Roma people. Worse, the term long ago spawned a pejorative verb: “Be careful doing business with that guy, ’cause he’ll gyp you if he can.” That word with that meaning has been around long enough to be included in my Webster’s International Dictionary, Second Edition (published in 1949). The word joins the infamous ranks of verbs for bad actions made from terms for unpopular peoples. (There must be a real lexicographical term for them; if I ever find it, you’ll soon after see it here.) Other examples might be “to welsh on a deal,” “to jew someone down on a price,” or various terms referencing traits associated with Dutch or Irish people.

I thought of using Roma, which is the term the people use to describe themselves. But I ran into the problem of over-inclusion: for this piece, I wanted it clear that I was writing not about the entire nation or tribe, but only those few who were bad actors, even if all the others were tarnished by their actions. This happens so commonly with various religious groups that I don’t even need to give examples. I then thought of using the more generic “transient” or “itinerant” in my narrative, but that seemed so general that the reader might think I’m deliberately using coded language. That wasn’t the case. I didn’t want the reader to have to guess who I’m referring to, but to have it clear, without derogating an entire group. I then thought of using a restrictive adjective: if you can have “toxic masculinity” to distinguish itself from regular (non-toxic?) masculinity, then how about “Criminal Roma.” The problem is that too often the reader assumes that the adjective is not naming a subgroup, but rather stating what should be obvious: “Well, that means they’re all criminals then, right?” Much as I would like to credit my readers with precise and critical thinking, I feel I should follow the age-old advice that writing should not merely be possible to understand, but impossible to misunderstand.

By default, more or less, I settled on the word tsygane, which is what the Russians themselves use to identify this group of people. When in Rome, after all. But I’ve since discovered that the term, and similar forms used in various European countries, all hark back to a Greek term meaning “untouchable.” A little more knowledge did not turn out to be a dangerous thing, but it certainly is an annoying one.

I’m going to let it stand as written, unless I discover a better term and can remember at that time how to use a keyboard. Or if that doesn’t happen, future generations might use this as an example of the “horrendous racism that permeated the early Twenty-First Century.” I won’t be around to defend myself, but hey, being the subject of some literary thesis is better than not being read at all.

And speaking of not being read at all, if you’re still with me now, I thank you.

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