A stranger walking his dog down the street at 10 a.m. on a Monday morning said good morning to me as I passed him. He had almost entirely gone by before he said it, and it took me a little by surprise, though it’s not unusual around here. There’s a bond that comes with being the only two people out on a path in the morning, the bond of mutual exercise or mutual enjoyment of the perfect weather, something like that. It’s polite. But it’s not something that Russians do, and after eight weeks I grew mostly accustomed to the lack of acknowledgment. It’s just one of those American things, small things that you never realized were hard-wired into your social system but not someone else’s, like eating peanut butter or wearing a new outfit every day.
It’s considered dishonest, the very American big public smile, the booming greetings to complete strangers, saying “How are you?” as a synonym for “Hello” rather than an actual expression of interest — our cultural textbook warned us that just because Russians don’t smile at you doesn’t mean they don’t like you. Smiling is optional, reserved for actual happy occasions rather than being something you just do to make everyone feel more comfortable.
So in an effort to look more Russian, I didn’t smile on the street, didn’t expect pleasantries to be exchanged in the market or café, and certainly not in the Metro. I adopted my “Russian face,” a stern, scowling “whatchu lookin’ at?” face. As I walked down the street, I sauntered gleefully on the inside, but on the outside I was disdaining, scornful.
I didn’t say excuse me or apologize when I bumped into people on the crowded streets or stepped on someone in a museum. I stared blatantly into the eyes of people on the street and my cheeks didn’t so much as twitch — daring people to smile at me. And when someone did, I didn’t know how to take it. It was disconcerting. Was something wrong with my face? “What are you smiling at, asshole?” I always thought. Is something funny? I could feel my brow folding over itself. Did too friendly mean foreign? It seemed like it.
The “service with a smile” business model doesn’t exist in Russia. Employees in shops don’t smile because to do so would betray a certain amount of fun — inappropriate for the work setting — was being had. Let’s not pretend we’re friends when you’re just coming in to buy more minutes for your phone, their logic dictates. A cell phone store employee once told me to have a good day, and I turned back around, thinking she was calling me back to the counter. She repeated the sentiment, and I felt embarrassed for not understanding. But the only place where I had ever been greeted warmly at the counter was at McDonald’s, and to me that felt like a fake foray into the American world of brightly-lit signs and clean public restrooms.
There were exceptions, of course. There was a jolly woman that worked at a doughnut shop I frequented who smiled broadly as she cleared tables and was friendly and polite when she asked me to please stop squatting at one of the tables so a family could sit down. The whole store smiled and laughed when a cat came in and plopped itself down on one of the chairs. Children came up to pet it and adults took pictures with their cell phone cameras. Strangers smiled and chatted and brought the cat an extra chair to stretch out on. But that was probably just a sugar high.
I smiled at cute children, not knowing how old they had to get before they’d be offended by it. I saw a pair of old ladies smile at a baby on the train once, so I figured it must be kosher. A really cute baby can trump all social norms. But there was a toddler sitting across from me on a long metro ride with his grandfather, who was feeding him a banana and trying to keep him from smearing it all across his face and the train. He was four at most, probably younger, and wore glasses with extra long earhooks to keep them from falling off. When his grandfather was looking away, I made faces at him. He was surprised, fascinated even, and he laughed and giggled to himself. But when we made eye contact, he stopped smiling and just kind of stared at me, confusedly.
Does someone have to teach you that? Do Russian children get instruction on looking serious in public, or is it just a cultural cue you pick up? Did anyone ever tell me it was polite to say hello to people on an empty path? I think they did, but I think I was the exception. As a child I always walked with my head down, wanting to see what was under my feet, and eventually my parents had to yell at me to look up, say hi to the people I ran into, rather than spending my whole life talking to the gravel. I don’t know if normal Americans need instruction in basic social skills like I did. My dad rides motorcycles, and we’ve always made fun of him for the automatic camaraderie that creates, requiring him to wave as he passes another motorcyclist, just ever so slightly, like a turn signal, extending his hand out, waiting for a high five. America seems obsessed with community-building; the world’s token sorority girl. Maybe it’s watching too many movies where a wonderful stranger pops into your life and suddenly interesting things happen. Or maybe we really are just friendly. I don’t think Russian has the equivalent of “A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet.”
But sometimes now I make accidental eye contact with someone in a parking lot, and they smile in that way that says wow, this is kind of uncomfortable for both of us, and I wonder why we bother. It might be a subtle acknowledgment of our shared humanity, but sometimes it seems more like a cultural ruse, a tic that makes us play-act at caring about strangers because it’s more comfortable to pretend that everyone’s your friend. Other times, the cashier at CVS wishes me a lovely day and I return the sentiment sincerely, and that seems like a beautiful thing.