My social life exists!

I went to the discothèque last Saturday and I can’t say it was too far from any college party in Ann Arbor, except for the music and the kid next to me asking me if I like Prodigy? No? What about Limp Bizkit? Oh, you don’t like them either… (In Ann Arbor it would be more like “do you like Broken Social Scene? They’re soooo good…”)

The first time I went to the discothèque was with my host mother’s grandson. It was on a night when I missed a family dinner because Tamara didn’t want to wake me up, and thus I missed meeting her grandkids, again. Her grandkids are a bit older than I am, both living in Chisinau. After dinner, Tamara came home and I was all “why didn’t you wake me up!!” and she was all “everyone in the family thinks you hate them because you didn’t come to dinner!” and was all like “Tamara!!!” and then she said “Grandson and his friend invited you to go to the discoteca tonight.” I was in pajamas already (actually, I’m always in pajamas at home) and it was about 10:30pm. I told her, no, I’ll just stay in tonight, it’s sort of late and anyways I have to get on a bus to Chisinau at 4am. She shrugged like whatever bitch.

Then, twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings and it’s Grandson and Friend! They come in dressed fo’ da’ club, and I stand sheepishly in my doorway; [cute] girl garnished in boxer shorts and oversized sweatshirt. “Hey, do you want to come to disco?” they insisted. “Okay fine!” I conceded, “give me five minutes!” And you know I did it up, looking all disco good, because that’s how I do. So I stayed up that entire night dancing and basically being ushered around by either grandson or his friend. Notice I didn’t say drinking, because y’know Chan Marshall be all like “what would the community think?” That night/morning I arrived home at 3:30am, finished packing, changed my underwear, and left to Chisinau on a bus congested by loud, frantic traditional Moldovan musica, as if the bus driver was passive-aggressively saying ‘if I have to be awake now, you all have to stay up with me.’ As I tried dosing, my ipod volume turned up to block bus music, I thought to myself ‘I finally have friends out here!’

And we really are friends, because we send text messages to each other and when they come to their hometown, the town I live in, we party like it’s 2007 in Moldova. This last Saturday the discothèque was hopping because it was ‘alumni week’ or something where all the older kids come home. Grandson and Friend are like superstars in town (or they’d like to think) and I’m like the new hot mystery girl (or so I’d like to think.) Everyone wanted to talk to me! The novelty of a new face in town was engorged when they found out I’m also an American. Questions abound. “Do people in America drink more or less than we do?” (They want me to answer less.) “Do you have a discos in America?” (How do I answer America has EVERYTHING?) “Aren’t cities in America so much better than here?” (They want me to answer yes.) I am a diplomat in all my answers, and I can never tell what blows their minds more; the number of countries I’ve traveled to or the fact that I not only can drive a car, but also owned one at age 16. I felt like I was back in Ann Arbor, coasting through the evening engaging in dances and conversations with new acquaintances. Someone bought me a shot of vodka. Thinking to myself again about the community (this isn’t Ann Arbor after all) I quickly poured the shot into the cup of juice I was drinking. The people around me looked at me like I was an alien when I said, “that’s how we drink ‘em in America!” I nursed the drink for a while; don’t think I even finished it. The little voice inside me whispering “keep your head clear Amy.”

The disco was fun(ny) but the best part of the evening was afterwards when the boys (and their other friends, some still living in town) caught on to how well I understand Russian, including the slang. They were all walking me home when they started telling ‘bad’ riddles (Jingle Bells, Batman smells-style) in Russian. There were some good riddles, and some real sleazy ones. Then it was my turn. I recited one I know from my childhood about a monkey without a pocket who loses his wallet and gets caught by the police who put him on a potty that goes ‘tap tap’ when monkey goes ‘poot poot.’ (It’s better in Russian, it rhymes.) They all fell silent, looked at one another in shock and asked, “have you ever heard that one before?” “No, have you!?” “No! WTF!” It was truly a high Amy moment, winning the boys over with a farting monkey joke.

At the end of the evening, approaching my apartment building, the boys grabbed each one of my arms and ran as I skated along the ice between them, yelling “I’m the King of the World!” They walked me to my door, like gentlemen (an English word they all know.) Laying in bed with Pussycat Dolls still ringing in my ears from the disco, I again fell asleep early on a Sunday morning thinking, ‘I finally have friends out here!’