![]() ![]() “You know, I am just fed up with doing things for a crowd who can’t put “thank” together with “you” when I do it. I don’t do that anymore.”īees, who normally has the final word on everything was flummoxed. “No,” I wrote back, “And that does mean no – this is not a diplomatic fob off. No thank you notes from any of them.īees Rees, the uncrowned Queen of Expat Moscow sent me a breezy e-mail requesting a command performance to meet with “a really gifted Russian colleague,” who wanted to explore opportunities in PR. We invited her for Christmas break, a three-week period, during which she spent the entire time lying on the sofa, eating Cheerios, watching videos, never once offering to help with any domestic chores. One of HRH’s military school buddies had a sister on an exchange program at Syracuse. Male Sponsor had found out), and she ended up living with me for six months. A National Guide from the State Tourism Committee I’d worked with landed at JFK to find that her (male) sponsor hadn’t turned up (Mrs. In college, my Russian teacher, a recent arrival to New York from Odessa, got me to hire her absolutely clueless sister, who spoke no English at all, as an office assistant at the law firm where I did night typing. Russians have learned, however, that many foreigners release favors for free: like the Dior scent sample sandwiched between the pages of Vogue, or the basket of hard candies at the doctor’s office. It never occurs to Petrov to thank Ivanov. Direct debit involves sourcing someone who knows someone, who can get to someone who has what you need. A credit history is built up with favors rendered. Not even via e-mail or text, so you can’t blame it on the They have no place in the strictly mercantile favor exchange in Russia. You never ever get a thank-you note in Russia. What makes me hold a gun to my daughter’s head and deprive her of leisure and enjoyment until she puts pen to paper to thank someone for a gift or a visit, a favor, or simply going out of their way? I suppose it is because my mother held a gun to mine, and her mother held one to her head…all the way back to the Flood. Velvet skipped off to go for a ride and I swung the car back towards home, contemplating the thank you note zeitgeist. “That’s true,” I say, “but only Babushka and Dedushka give you things in Russia, and you are always there with them, so you don’t have to write them a note…and anyway, if you did, it would probably never reach its destination anyway…what with the postal service being the way it is.” In the car, Velvet comments that she never has to write thank you notes in Russia. She slumps at the kitchen table and scratches away diligently, but unenthusiastically for forty minutes, occasionally asking how to spell “quilted” or “polar tech.” Velvet grimaces, but silently takes the list, box of writing paper and roll of stamps I have ready for her. “Do them now,” I say, “Non-negotiatiable.” “Mooooohhhhhhmmm…” she wails, “I’ll do them after.” “I’ll drive you over,” I bargain, “if you write your Christmas thank you letters.”
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