But when I descend the escalator to the rynok (reenok), or local market, near Tushinskaya metro, I enter "real" Russia. I'm on my own and feeling more like a sore thumb the closer I get to the ground floor. I look different from the other, mostly women, shoppers. Not in a scary, alien kind of way, where everyone in the place freezes the second I appear, gaping at me in stunned silence. They keep doing what they're doing, but I catch one of the lady vendors following me intently with her eyes, then two others looking in my direction, quickly turning to each other with hands covering their mouths, as if I could understand what they were saying, anyway. Maybe it's the attire - winter coat, without fur. Maybe it's the white hair that I'm, unbelievably, not coloring. Maybe it's my reputation, "The Lady Who Doesn't Speak Russian." Or maybe it's my tote bag. READ GREEN, written in yellow, displaying Barbara Kingsolver's book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle."
Today I want to take a few pictures for my blog, but feel more like a spy with a secret camera in her pocket than a mild-mannered housewife with vegetables on her mind. Actually, I do have a camera in my pocket, but am afraid to use it. I've learned to take pictures with caution and only in those big, open touristy places. I made the mistake of snapping a photo of the above-ground entrance to a metro station a couple of years ago, just to show the folks back home where I catch the nearest train. Before I could put the camera in my purse and walk to the bottom of the stairs, I was surrounded by 3 uniformed individuals, two men and a woman, whose only and most frequent word in Russian I could understand was "Nyet!" Where had they come from? I got the message quickly that taking pictures anywhere close to a metro is NOT ALLOWED, which makes perfect sense, especially with the subsequent bombings last year.
Think about it. If you were standing behind piles of potatoes, turnips, purple onions and beets, and a white-haired lady wearing a puffy down jacket which made her look like a black marshmallow with a head, pulled a camera out of her cryptic bag and started taking pictures of you and your veggies, wouldn't you be skeptical? I'm not a total stranger to the rynok, having frequented it at least 10 times before, but it's a big place, about half the size of a football field. There are the dairy counters with the "cheese ladies," as I describe them, the nut cases with the "nut guys," the leafy greens with the "greens ladies," the honey, meat, fruits, vegetables, bread, dried fish, biscuits, flowers, and more I've never explored.
I decide to take a chance with four vendors with whom I have a "relationship," ones I return to each time, appreciating their patience with my gestures and limited "rynok Russian." Holding up my camera and asking, "Can I take a picture?" as I point toward their wares, I smile and try to look the least like Angelina Jolie (Salt) as possible. Not a hard task. Each one nods, kindly but slowly, trying to be accommodating to this American lady, but not quite sure why she wants to take pictures of food. None wants to be in the picture, though. The "bread lady" scoots under the counter to get totally out of the way; the "fruit lady" moves to the side; the "nut guy" ducks behind the almonds, and the "greens lady" gets involved with another customer. (I sneak her into the picture, however, as I fake aiming only at the lettuce.) Maybe there's a little spy in me, after all.
I walk the half hour route back to our apartment, camera safely nestled in my bag among the walnuts, bread and basil. I download the pictures as I unload the groceries, then sit back for a cup of tea and exhale. "Mission accomplished!"
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