What binds the generation of Russian immigrants
Borsch and dumplings, Lolita with Stas Mikhailov, parochial consciousness and amusing rungish language - Alex Shifrin wrote for Billboard Daily a column that unites people who have left for Canada over the past 30 over the years from the USSR and Russia.
By agreeing to the life of an expat, you inevitably accept the role of a bore that experiences eternal discomfort. In Moscow, I constantly complained that I did not have enough chips Doritos and jerkies - in Canada, I suffer from a shortage of doctoral sausage and kvass.
In 1970 – 1980, the flow of departing was mainly “undesirable elements”: criminals, dissidents, Jews, intellectuals - those who were considered marginalized in the Union. In 1990, Canada, and other countries, were flooded by ardent admirers of the West, co-operators and newly-minted businessmen who dreamed of dumping from the USSR, but never in opposition. Again, among them were many crooks and rogues.
In zero, Russia became rich, and emigration became more refined - educated people who had time to travel around the world, proto-hipsters and mini-oligarchs went. But in the 2010-e went a new wave: from Canada to Russia began to move the children of the first generation of Soviet immigrants, and then - come back. As a result, the last wave of Russian Canadians consists of people about whom it cannot be said that they are from Canada or from Russia. They are not tied to the idea of home - they are from an airplane.
My family came here from Belarus in the late 1970s. The first years we lived in the city of Regina, Saskatchewan: population about 100 thousand, the center of wheat cultivation in the country. And into this hole fate threw a handful of Soviet emigrants - us, one Leningrad family and other Muscovites. In it, dad sympathized with Canadian communists and drove a Lada - it seemed to me that he was a secret KGB agent. I grew up during a time of escalating tension between the West and the Soviets—at school I was called a commie. I remember how on September 1, 1983, after a Soviet plane shot down a Korean Boeing, they drove me into a corner and began to interrogate me why we did it and what I knew. I was eleven at that time - I fought back as best I could when they did not receive an answer.
That all changed in 1986 when we moved to Toronto. I discovered that it was not the only one in the universe, - in Little Moscow it is full of the same. If you go back to the categories, then our family was a mixture of Jewish and criminal émigré - especially on the father’s side. In the USSR, my mother worked as an architect, but my father's relatives were caricatural gangsters of Odessa sense. The head of the family was considered a tall black-haired bandit named Wing - father's cousin Volodya. I had no idea what he was doing for a living, but the Wing was always in business: it was pushing a lobster truck to someone, then attaching fur products. At one point, he and his wife kept a restaurant. Volodya was sure that the Canadian police were listening on his phone, so before dialing the number, I turned to the handset: “Well, what, bitch, are you listening? Yes?". Their father - Uncle Pinya - served in the Soviet Union and in Canada became a real authority. Other emigrants came to him to Baturst and Stiles to solve their problems. Alex - the son of Volodya and Ghali - gave me my first cigarette when I was seven. Having lost contact with them, many years later I learned that he died from an overdose.
This whole fifty-year history of Russian emigration comes to life when I go to Yummy market. First, the behavior of drivers changes dramatically. In general, in Toronto, a quiet driving culture: cars are inferior to cyclists, trying to respect each other. At Baturst and Stilles, cars start turning not from their own row, they do not slow down at intersections, and if someone doesn’t like the way you park, be sure that someone will get out of the car and drive on.
Today I had to overcome the difficulties on the way to the world of Soviet snacks for the sake of very specific things. I wanted black bread, a doctoral sausage, and a couple of bottles of kvass (I once tried to make it myself — I will never again and do not advise you!). Yummy market - a cross between a grocery in some great bows and an amusement park. To the right of the entrance, a peasant plays military accordion on military accordion; boys with bottles of “Baltika” walk by - discuss plans for the evening. There is an exchanger, as near any self-respecting supermarket in provincial Russia. And even if the vegetation was taken out from there: a burdock grows near the fence.
Inside are women wearing suits of wild colors or, on the contrary, perfectly matched colors; wearing trousers that looked like tulle curtains, heels, champagne blonde hair and lipstick. Men in short sleeve shirts and sandals. They speak a mixture of Russian and English - Runglish. “Have you woken up yet? - the lady asks into the phone, the time is four days. “Oh, May, why?” The intercom beeps - and an indifferent female voice calls a certain Olya: “Olya, he’s calling for a certificate. Olya! “Have you eaten samphing? - continues the woman with the phone. “Well, it’s not serious.”
I grab a number at the counter Russian Express - analogue Moscow Times for Russian expats. On the front page, currency exchange advertising is evident - this is the era of the blockchain. The Russian-speaking community in Toronto is about 100 thousand people. The city publishes 50 newspapers and magazines in Russian, and the most popular are on the threshold. Yummy market can be borrowed for free, including Doroga Road Magazine, "All Advertising", "Driving Canada"," Newspaper + "," Announcements Classifieds" and this one Russian Express.
“Come on. Buy! ”, - the woman hides the phone and looks at the goods.
I grab the cart - here they ask for it 25 cents, like at the airport. My wife and I immediately switch to the mode of buyers in Moscow "Auchan", plagued by a deficit and distraught of abundance. Dumplings? Come on 8 packs! Just ... Kvass? 10 cans - let it be. Cottage cheese - a couple of kilos.
We find mayonnaise. Rather, the wall of mayonnaise.
In the Canadian supermarket, as a rule, three varieties are sold - regular, low-fat and with olive oil. The subtleties of Russian relations with mayonnaise and their ability to distinguish the nuances of its taste are similar to how the Chukchi have many different words to describe the types of snow. There were 50 shades of gray for a fan of mayonnaise from the USSR.
We were dumbfounded for a moment, and then we took several different ones.
Just in case.
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