My Date with a Russian in Portugal
I'd been pacing my apartment for half an hour. I lit up and took a drag from the half-spliff sitting in the tiny ashtray by my window. My phone vibrated with a WhatsApp message and I saw the time. It was almost nine in the evening. I took another drag and held it in momentarily while I closed the open shutter that looked down on to Rua Laranjeira. With one final puff I smashed the butt back down into the tray, grabbed my keys, and hopped my way down four flights of darkness. At the base of the stairs my fingers shortly fumbled for the doorlatch and I slipped out into the dimly lit street.
The view from my apartment looking down on Rua Laranjeira: Bairro Alto, Lisbon, Portugal.
A part of me was nervous; I still had some lingering paranoia from my robbery in Brazil. I strolled quickly and quietly with my head down. I rounded the corner and everything came alive. Hundreds of people meandered from restaurants to bars. The crowd of the main street put me at ease, but I still walked quickly.
I breathed in the night time as I made my way to Largo do Carmo, a historic square in Lisbon. When I arrived, there was a small kiosk that served cocktails, beer, and coffee. Patrons sat under a large statue at the center of the plaza puffing on hand-rolled cigarettes and drinking Sagres. Moments fell around me and I took them in. I noticed an older man approaching me in my periphery. He wore an old gray driver cap and a long tan trench coat. His lips were chapped beneath his short gray beard and he spoke with a heavy Portuguese accent.
"Don't worry, I'm not a beggar." He assured me, "Where are you from?"
"I am from the U.S.," I responded in Portuguese.
"But do you speak English?" He asked also in Portuguese.
"Yes, I speak English," I replied, this time in my very American English.
"I will speak in English then." He decided, "I am a teacher, and what I am doing is educating people about the history of this square.” He continued, “It is a very historic place. Do you have time?"
"Sure, I'd appreciate that, but I am meeting someone, so I have until he arrives. Then I leave." I informed him.
He pressed, "Just ten minutes?"
"Until they get here." I reasserted.
Unfortunately, he didn't seem to have much of a presentation set up. He did tell me there was a revolution planned in the square, but it wasn’t a very detailed story. It felt more like a series of short facts, then he asked me for money. He was in fact not actually a teacher.
The real history of the square that I have Googled since is that Largo do Carmo was where the Carnation Revolution, a military coup overthrowing the authoritarian Estado Novo regime ended on the 25th of April, 1974. Flanking the plaza are also the ruins of Convent de Carmen. The convent was partially destroyed in a 1755 earthquake along with many other historic buildings throughout the city. The convent is now a museum. The old man continued to talk for some time; behind him I noticed Maksim entering the square.
"Excuse me, my friend is here." I said putting my hand on the man’s shoulder, giving it a pat as I bowed out of the lecture. I started walking toward the tall Russian man approaching me.
"Hi!" I chirped.
I went in for a hug and was met with an outstretched hand to the chest. I corrected my posture and I shook his hand with wide eyes. He had a chiseled jaw and was well built. His blonde hair was freshly cut.
"Hello," his accent was definitely Russian, "You've made a friend, huh?" He pointed toward the not-a-teacher.
"Yes, yes I did. He was asking me for money." I told him the story as he led me over to a bench. He chugged a bottle of orange juice as I talked.
"You're like Labradors." He interrupted me.
I think he meant all Americans. That we are just happy to be around people, energetic, talk to anyone. I sort of agreed stereotypically speaking, and if Americans are dogs, Russians are certainly cats.
"We do give in to small talk I guess." I nodded, and turned my head scanning the square then turned back to him.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked him.
Just then, he stood up and started walking away. I shook my head and I hopped up running on his heels. He tossed his empty orange juice bottle in a recycling bin and kept walking briskly out of the square.
“There is a bar over here that has a nice view.” He said as I cruised up beside him.
I was a bit put off by his behavior. Just walking away and expecting to be followed was strange and rude in my opinion, but I was up for anything. I'd already been in the city for almost a week and had spent most of my time in my apartment working or exploring the neighborhood alone with my Nikon.
Because of that, I was willing to put up with him for a bit longer than I might have normally. Also, Maksim was a handsome man. He spoke bluntly and was quite opinionated, but I was okay with that for the time being. After all, I was there to learn other perspectives, not to prove mine. I am also typically the talker so it was an experiment for Wilson to shut up and listen for a bit. We rounded a corner and came upon a raised ledge that overlooked a vast swath of the city.
Overlooking Lisbon Portugal. 2023.
"That is where I live." Maksim said vaguely pointing off across town. I couldn't tell where he was pointing so I just nodded.
"The view there is better." He let me know. Again, I nodded silently.
Maksim made me slightly uncomfortable. We stared out over the city for a few moments appreciating the view and then walked up to the bar. My date asked if they served food and if they sold cigarettes. The bartender replied yes to both inquiries and without another word Maksim strolled over to an empty table far in the corner, pulled a chair out, and plopped down into it. I followed him over and sat across from him, put my elbows on the table, and rested my jaw on interlaced fingers.
"I don't like to be around people." he told me as he tapped his finger on the table impatiently.
The waitress ran over with a drink menu; Maksim only spoke English and Russian, no Portuguese. He told me that he had lived in Lisbon for 8 months and that he had learned nearly nothing of the local language. It sounds like shit and he didn’t intend to learn it is what he said. When Maksim asked the waitress in aggressively accented English what food they had, she attempted to list the menu from memory.
"Uh, French Fries…" she managed and then said, "I'll get the menu; this will be easier."
Definitely easier, girl.
"And cigarettes!" Maksim shouted after her as she hurried away.
I was very aware of how abrasive Maksim was coming off. But I also knew he had a different experience than I did, and I was interested enough to hear what that was, and again— he was pretty hot. His shoulders were broad and his torso tapered down in that triangle shape like a swimmer. A light golden mustache, bright blue eyes. He was dressed entirely in black this night.
The waitress shuffled back over with the food menu, then she informed us that the cigarettes were cash only. They sold them inside she said pointing to a warmly lit open doorway. I could see a dirty mop leaning against a blue-tiled wall next to a humming vending machine. I did not want to go in there. It was just giving weird vibes. I don’t know. We ordered two Heineken, and then he browsed the menu for a moment. The waitress ran off to fetch our beers.
"You sat on the other side of the table." My date observed.
"Yeah, I thought about sitting on that side, but—" I trailed off.
"Too romantic.” He finished for me.
"Yeah, actually. Yes. " I laughed and he did too then we both fell silent for a moment.
"All this food is shit." He observed, and then abruptly he said, "I hate to be this guy, but do you happen to have cash with you? For the cigarettes. I usually carry it, but not this time."
I opened my wallet.
"I have one U.S. dollar." I regretfully informed him and held out my open wallet for him to see.
He tapped the table again looking around the place, and in that moment he collectively made the decision for us to eat elsewhere— mostly because he really wanted cigarettes. So, we finished our drinks, paid, and started walking again. We’d been together for no more than half an hour, and so far I’d been lightly insulted and slightly put off the entire time. A part of me almost decided to end the date here, however, I did not. And because of it I have this story for you.
And so— we ventured to find cigarettes immediately and food elsewhere. At least we got to see the nice view— that wasn’t as nice as the other view according to him— for a moment. We stopped at the first convenience store we found on our stroll. Maksim bought a pack of Marlboro Gold and we sat for a moment in a plaza, he walked up to the kiosk and ordered us two more beers and brought them over to a metal patio table away from other people.
He packed his cigarettes then tore off the cellophane wrapper. His fingernails looked shiny and manicured as he pulled back the foil and slid a tobacco filled tube up with his thumb. He gestured it toward me. I grabbed it and stuck in between my lips. He asked me what I did as he lit up and took a drag and then reached over to light mine. I took in a drag and exhaled.
“I work for a non-profit.” I told him, “and I write in my free time.”
"Very stereotypical." He said exhaling a cloud of smoke.
"I wouldn't say I am stereotypical." I defended myself.
"You travel." He stated.
"Yes?" I pressed.
"You journal, you take pictures." Maksim continued, "You hike. You thrift shop."
"I do a lot of things.” Pushing back, I squinted at him. He was hot but he wasn’t hot enough to read me for filth.
I wasn't taking it personally, but I wondered if this was going well in his head. In fact, maybe this was going well by Russian standards? At this point, I was just along for the ride, I would probably chalk this up to another bad date and not lose any sleep over it. Whether or not I ever saw this guy again didn't matter. I just wasn’t sitting alone in my apartment for the night. At least this was something to do.
At the same time, I truly wanted to understand his point of view, even if I didn't agree with it. And that was actually a nice thing about talking with Maksim because it was stripped of all coded language and uncertainty; he was very direct. And I could be very direct as well. I sincerely don’t think he meant to be rude. I don't even know if he'd be considered rude back in Russia. He might be the nicest Russian, who knows?
We finished our beers and paid, he picked up the tab. This was a gesture that I understood. Maksim was enjoying his time enough. I frowned a smile as we walked off and I asked where we were going now.
"What do you think about pizza?" He suggested.
The first two pints were seeping in and my stomach growled loudly.
“Pizza is great.” I just wanted to eat something.
We made our way to Pink Street, a popular tourist attraction in Lisbon, but its kind of gimmicky in my opinion. The road is painted a bright pink and it is slippery as fuck when it rains— actually, all the streets in Lisbon are slippery when it rains. Wear shoes with some tread on them, you’ve been warned. Oh, and there is also a web of rainbow umbrellas strung above the street, very Instagrammable.
Pink Street in Lisbon during the day. 2023.
Over a dozen languages swam in the air. It was packed tight that night as we zigged through the crowded street bumping shoulders with strangers.
"Too many people," I murmured aloud to myself. I think Maksim was rubbing off on me.
The Russian man led me a few blocks further to a pizzeria called 'Bitchy’ in Portuguese. It was literally called “Putana.”
We went inside, sat down, and we each ordered another beer and a whole pizza to ourselves. It was very demure, very cutesy. We ate faster than we drank and didn’t talk until we were both finished. When we were done we poured the rest of our beers in to-go cups and made our way to a less populated area. We sat at a table in another nearby plaza and sipped our drinks. Maksim pulled out another Marlboro Gold and ignited it and a man started to approach the table.
"Do you have a lighter?" He asked us in Portuguese.
"Here," Maksim spoke English and handed him the lighter without looking at him.
"Where are you from?" The stranger asked as he lit up his own cigarette.
Maksim responded annoyedly, “I am from many places.”
The man handed back the lighter silently. We all stared at each other and said nothing.
"You guys do cocaine?" Our guest violently broke the tension.
Maksim just said “Leave, Goodbye,” and avoided eye contact with the man who then walked off awkwardly without saying another word.
"This is why I don't do small talk, there is always a motive behind it. Why do you care where I'm from? Fuck off." Maksim threw his cigarette hand up.
It dawned on me that he probably didn’t want to mention where he was from due to sentiments on the war happening in Ukraine. In that moment I sort of felt bad for him. It hadn’t really crossed my mind how he felt perceived in the world. Which is crazy considering I am always thinking of how I am perceived. I decided not to pick at the topic yet.
"I enjoy small talk for a moment.” I offered my opinion. “Even if he wants to sell me blow, it's nice to talk to another human for a second."
I heard myself and went silent. “Okay, yeah, maybe I am like a Labrador.”
He laughed.
"I don't do drugs." He added on, “Do we look like we are doing cocaine?”
“I mean, I smoke weed.” I shrugged.
Maksim smashed the glowing ember of his cigarette butt into a little red ashtray atop our table.
"I just don't think I need anything to improve this” He said gesturing with both arms at the world, “It's already so beautiful. Drugs add too many layers."
I felt this was him opening up a bit so I decided to press him about why he was in Lisbon. He told me he left Russia because he didn’t want to go to war. He had fled just after the war with Ukraine started to avoid being drafted. I thought about his experience. I thought about my life, and all of the different chapters I have lived. I thought about Georgia. I thought about Norfolk. And Brazil.
“Do you ever feel like you’ve lived through several different versions of yourself?” I pondered to him.
"We're not fucking Taylor Swift." He blurted back at me.
I pointed at him, “That is where you are wrong." I said taking a sip of my drink.
We moved from the plaza and sat on a street corner outside of a dive bar nearby my apartment. As we talked, the other bars around us closed one by one and the street got quieter. Together we sat, in the chilly night, and chain smoked cigarettes, talking slower and slower as it got later and later. Finally I took our beer glasses in to the bartender who had already stopped serving. I stumbled back into the street. Maksim was standing in the middle of the avenue, staring off into the cold. Rock music from the bar leaked out into the night. I went and stood next to him and we both meditated there for a few moments.
"So, are you going to invite me to your place?" He asked turning to me.
I looked at him for a second, caught off guard. He was indeed very blunt. And I know I’ve said this several times already, but the man was hot.
“Uh, yeah.” I shook my head oppositely. “Yeah. Okay.”
"Are you sure?” He narrowed his brow at me. “You don't seem sure?"
"Yeah, no, I am sure. Let’s go.” Without a word I started walking off in the direction of my place. He followed.
My fingers were stiff from the cold. I fumbled with my keys for a bit until I found the right one and unlocked the door. We scrambled up 4 flights in the dark and burst into my stuffy little apartment. I sat on the futon and grabbed the TV remote.
“Do you want—” I started.
“We don’t need to watch anything, why do Americans always need a TV?” He interrupted me.
“I was just going to put on music.” I rolled my eyes at him.
“We don’t need it.” He argued.
I accepted that and put the remote down. He paced around the hardwood looking at my things on the table at the center of the room. I walked over to open the shutter. In that moment it dawned on me that I really did not know this man very well. An unsettling idea creeped into the back of my mind and made my heart skip a beat. I wasn’t incredibly drunk, but I was drunk. I did have a strange man in my apartment, and I was alone in a foreign country. This was literally the start to every true crime documentary on Netflix. I pushed the thought aside.
"Your American Passport." He pointed. "I have mine, too."
“You have an American Passport?” I questioned him.
“Russian.” Maksim responded. “I just mean, I have mine on me.”
"You carry your passport on you?" I shook my head in confusion.
"Not usually, but I had it today.” Is all he said.
We browsed our booklets, seeing where each other had been. He had stamps and visas from all over Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. For a few hours we sat and we talked. We talked about our travels. He talked about Russia. I talked about the United States. We talked about our families and what we wanted to do in the future. I felt more assured that he wasn’t going to rob or assault me now. I was actually finally enjoying the evening.
I rolled myself a late night spliff and as I did he examined my tobacco.
"American Spirit." He laughed, "Of course, so American."
I sighed, “I have like 2 things that say America on them and one of them is my passport. It’s not that crazy.”
He smirked and lit another cigarette. He stepped over toward the balcony and looked down on the street. I finished rolling a spliff and walked over to him. I held my hand out for his lighter and lit it, blowing my smoke out into the wind. He paced back into apartment and examined more of my things. From the kitchen, I heard him speak.
"How do you think they separate the dishes with the hot and cold water?" He quizzed.
"What?" I asked.
"The hot and cold water has two different spouts." He clarified. “You cannot put the hot on the other side. There are two spouts.”
"I don't fucking know." I said.
He posited: "I think they fill the basin and wash the dishes in the filthy water."
I found throughout the night I had started being more abrasive and blunt with him, and now he was making small talk? Perhaps we had both rubbed off on each other.
“I thought you didn’t like small talk.” I teased him.
“I don’t. But these fucking Portuguese. I don’t understand them.” He scrunched up his nose up, “Their sinks are weird.”
My suppressed a judging smile and simply stared at him. He didn’t want to admit that he was making an effort, and I thought that was funny. Although, I didn’t understand his disdain for the Portuguese and their ways. He was living here after all. Why not just go to another country?
By this time it was getting late, so I eventually gave Maksim a sign that I was ready to tap out for the night. He picked up the hint and I waited up with him for a bit longer until his Uber had arrived. He gathered his things. I opened the door for him and as he left he turned around.
"Wilson." He said.
“Maksim.” I said back.
He held out his palm for a handshake.
I smiled and took his hand in mine and gave it an overstated jolt up and down, then he pulled me in for a hug.
“And I couldn’t help but wonder, had this stand-offish Russian asylum seeker truly snuck past my defenses? Or was I just in two martinis too deep?”
I never saw the dude again.
