we walk in, you, a handsome, Minnesotan boyfriend, and I, a Russian, adopted at eighteen months, and living in the US with an American family ever since; we walk into the restaurant, the first authentic Russian place I’ve ever been to, past a stuffed bear in pea-colored Soviet gear and one of those square, fluffy hats; we walk in, to the hostess’s podium— I greet her with a privyet, hello, and she reciprocates, my ears welcoming her thick accent; she asks me, in Russian, if it will be just the two of us; I nod, da, yes. Suppose she leads us to our table, placing menus in front of us both before leaving with a hefty spasiba, thank you. Suppose I throw in a few Russian words here and there when ordering: I’d like the cabbage rolls, pozalista, please. Suppose as we eat, I listen in on the other table’s conversation, which is entirely in Russian; I can understand the gossip, every word, and I give the waitress another spasiba when she checks in on us. Suppose on the check I leave a small note in Russian, thanking our waitress and wishing her well with a generous tip. Suppose when we leave, the hostess and I exchange one more spasiba. 

Instead, I speak no Russian. The hostess and I exchange dialogues: How many? Two. Okay, follow me; I use my English yes-es and thank you-s on the waitress when she asks for our orders; I can’t understand the other table’s Russian gossip; I have to Google Translate how to write spasiba in Russian on our check, because I can’t quite remember exactly how it is spelled— even with the help, I’m still not confident in my characters. There is no final spasiba towards the hostess when we walk past. We just leave.