Last night, N. brought me a huge bouquet of roses.
“What is the occasion?” I asked.
“Your last bouquet wilted,” he explained very seriously.
This is the only typically Russian trait that N. possesses. He has been raised to believe that a man’s duty is to ensure that his wife always has fresh flowers about her. In everything else, he is the opposite of the stereotypical Russian.
He is very non-violent to the point where he can’t watch any TV shows because they traumatize him. I once got him to watch half an episode of Law & Order: SVU, and the poor guy had nightmares for a week. He also doesn’t like talk shows because he suffers when people yell over each other.
He is more indifferent to alcohol than any other person I know except my father.
He does half of household chores happily and enthusiastically. “Why did you wash these dishes?” he says, looking offended and confused. “This is my job. You are scaring me when you turn into this Soviet woman who just has to do all of the housework.”
He is a passionate feminist who winces when I jokingly say that somebody is a “typical man / woman.” Then he gives me a lecture on why gender stereotyping is wrong.
He is very progressive and a lot more Liberal on the economic issues than I am.
He is extremely faithful, monogamous, and uxorious, which is unheard of in a Russian person.
He is very methodical and organized.
He is very good at saving money.
He is also very kind. He pretends to have forgotten the stories I told him three times already to give me a chance to tell them again.
And he doesn’t talk about the tortured and mysterious Russian soul. He doesn’t even believe it exists. He also tries to control the frequency with which he quotes Pushkin for which I am eternally grateful.
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