Ilya, Tim, David, and Vassily

I just got bumped out of my lodgings for two hours by a Russian Orthodox group that uses Hagen House every Friday from 8 to 10PM. The group has a key to the place, and according to Vassily, the taciturn patriarch of a brood of three boys, no one had told him I would be there. No surprise, really: I showed up uninvited!

The three boys, from youngest to oldest, are Ilya (I'm guessing 8 or 9), Tim (10 or 11-ish), and David, who towers over the other two boys and is obviously a teenager.

Tim and Ilya, who both speak fluent Russian, went into giggle fits when I said "I don't speak Russian" and "No, no; I don't think so" in Russian. Their father and the eldest son, David (who seems to have inherited his father's reticence), looked on with wry amusement.

I was struck by how unafraid the two youngest boys were to talk with me. Both seemed outgoing and had startlingly firm handshakes when we greeted each other. David also shook my hand without hesitation, but he approached the gesture with a male teen's native caution.

I asked the group about what was going to happen during the two-hour session. "We sit around and talk about things," one of the boys said. I regret not asking what language they used during their meetings, but guessing from the grandmothers in the parking lot who managed only "hello"s to me, the language was Russian.

I hope the kids keep their Russian as they grow older. I say that not only as a lover of language, but also because, very often, an unfortunate side effect of the assimilation process is the rejection of certain aspects of the parents' culture by the children.

On one hand, this is only natural (though not inevitable). On the other hand, assimilation is like a generation-spanning act of translation, and things are often lost in translation. While some habits and values probably should be lost in translation (e.g., overweening patriarchalism), sometimes it's the beautiful things that fall away.

So I once again find myself outside and enjoying a lovely sunset. I'm wearing a windbreaker right now because the weather's a bit cool. I'll probably stroll around a bit, then head back to Hagen House before the Russian community locks the place up at 10. While I'm tempted to try out the pizza joint up the street, I'll pass because I did the next-door Mexican place for lunch-- my only meal of the day. Not a bad one, either: a taco/enchilada combo platter plus a super-tall Coke, followed by a taco-shell apple pie fritter with strawberry sauce and whipped cream (I took a photo) for dessert.

After a lunch like that, the term "windbreaker" takes on a more pungent significance.


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