COLUMNISTS

Deidre Dare

These days it's just parties, parties, parties in Moscow.

In the past week I've been to one festive-season dinner party, one pre-Christmas drinks, one Hanukkah/Poker party (I both brought the menorah and won the poker) and one (inevitably perilous) holiday office party.

What I like most about the holiday season here is that most of these celebrations happen at people's homes, offering a rare glimpse into my friends' and acquaintances' inner lives.

What I hate most about the holiday season here is that most of these celebrations happen at people's homes, requiring me to remove my Manolo Blahnik shoes and thereby rendering whatever glamorous outfit I've put together half-baked at best.

Demanding that people take off their shoes, in my opinion, is equivalent to demanding that they remove all their jewellery: accessories make the outfit. Doesn't anyone in Moscow realise that???

Anyway, there's this guy I really like and he keeps popping up at these parties. No one can understand why I'm so into him. At first, even I couldn't understand why I'm so into him. There are fitter men after me. There are richer men after me. There are smarter men after me. There are younger men after me. But right now I only have eyes for this dude. Let's call him "Lee".

I have so many eyes for Lee, that every time we are at a party together I literally fling myself at him. I fling those eyes and I fling everything else: arms, legs, lips. You name it, it gets flung.

I was pondering Lee's mysterious attractiveness one Sunday afternoon during my RPM Spin class and finally realised (I believe it was during the Britney Spears track) what it is about him that has me hooked (besides his forearms which are just too yummy for words).

He's American.

Since 1994, I've been romantically involved with Belgians, Kiwis, Aussies, Brits, Frogs, Krauts, Russkies, etc., but nary a Yank.

It was a revelation to me that I find being around a fellow-countryman so appealing. I think it's because there's a whole cultural sub-text that is immediately accessible and understandable.

Lee and I pretty much know where each other is coming from without any effort at all. It's just easier. And not a little easier. A lot easier.

I started to wonder: although they are exciting and exotic and make all your friends and family back home jealous, maybe inter-cultural romances might not be all they're cracked up to be.

Of course, in the sometimes-claustrophobic expat world of Moscow, it's not like you can avoid inter-cultural liaisons.

For instance, if I limited myself to Americans and my English friend, Natalie, limited herself to Brits, we'd be home together every Saturday night watching Sleepless in Seattle or some other equally nauseating chick-flick.

And both Natalie and I would much prefer to be out prancing around town on the weekends, with whatever nationality of boy happens to be around, to that particular scenario.

After all, what's the point of even owning a few pairs of Blahniks if you aren't prancing around in them on a Saturday night?

Consequently, tops on my Christmas list this year, Santa, would be a prancing/Blahnik/American man combination.

But here's the rub. Although Lee freely admits that the "my fellow American" thing is wonderfully refreshing, he refuses to show any interest in me at all.

Party after party: I repeatedly fling myself at him.

Party after party: he repeatedly goes off and gets another beer.

I've heard that Russian women practice the art of playing hard-to-get and do it well. Maybe Lee's been here too long and has learned that skill himself. If that's the case, I can assure you: playing hard-to-get works like a charm. I'm virtually in a passion.

But I can try and turn the tables on Lee. The next time we meet up at a party, I'll insist to the hostess that I keep my shoes on.

I am counting on the fact that flinging oneself shod in three-inch heels is probably a lot more difficult than doing it barefoot. 

xxoo

DD

For more of Deidre Dare's writing, go to: www.deidredare.com