Fishing for the Right Words

Circling the lake on my morning walk through the Moscow park, I pass by his spot.  By 7:30, he's re-created his space just like it was yesterday and the day before, in such a perfect way that I wonder if he ever goes home.  His two-legged folding stool, with shiny silver legs and green canvas seat is situated at a comfortable distance from the water, so that the pole stretches out to the precise location where fish gather for a quick bite before heading off to work.  Similar to Starbucks, but with a catch.
A white plastic, recycled grocery sack sits to his right, flanked by a stainless steel thermos - his breakfast, I presume.  An identical bag sits to his left - his bait, I presume; hopefully, never the two shall be confused.

The fisherman is not alone.  Every few feet along the bank is another, sitting on or standing beside a similar, if not identical stool, plastic bags and knapsacks at his feet, pole precisely postioned, staring at the water's surface.  One morning, I counted 14 members of the community ringing the perimeter of the lake  watching, waiting.  Paying closer attention during a week's worth of walking, I noticed that the same fishermen occupied the same territories.  Could it be that there is an unspoken agreement, much like with church pews?  Heaven help the first-time church goer or weekend fisherman who stumbles upon a presumed vacancy, later to discover an invisible "Reserved" sign as he's nudged further along by its rightful occupant.

So, what's different about "my" fisherman?  He speaks to me, or did for the first time this week.  He happened to turn in my direction as I was fast-walking past.  His eyes met mine from under the brim on his gray, floppy hat.  He said something in Russian; I shrugged indicately that sadly, after being in his country for going-on seven years, I can count my Russian vocabulary on the combined fingers of my hands plus a couple of toes.  Not giving up, he moved his right index finger in a circle over his left palm, and I understood. 

"How many times do you circle the lake?" he wanted to know.

"Dva," I answered, at least trying to say something, anything in Russian.

"Two," he replied, trying to do the same in English.  

He nodded and smiled.  I nodded and smiled.   I walked on.

Early the next morning, there he sat on his stool, reading glasses perched half-way down his nose, opening a ziploc bag.  His bushy gray beard reminded me of Santa Claus (or Ded Moroz, in Russian), along with his round cheeks and bowl-full-of-jelly belly, camoflauged under his fishing vest.  

"Dobraye utra" (Good morning), I said.

"Hello," he answered.

"Two," he continued, holding up two fingers, smiling, remembering our conversation from the day before.

I nodded and smiled, which I've gotten quite proficient at, I might add.

Walking on, I waved and offered my farewell in Russian, "Dasvidaniya."

Hesitating slightly, as if to make sure he was formulating the correct response, he replied in a resounding, baritone voice, "Good af-ter-noon!"

I smiled and nodded.  Yes, it was indeed "good," no matter what the time of day.