Smitten by the Siberian in Skates

Cup'pa JoeWhere was my friend Dmitry Chesnokov last night when I needed him most?†Near the start of†the 8:00 – 9:30 public skating session at†Cabin John Ice Rink†last night I was heart to heart†with a size 2, seriously English-challenged Siberian blonde bombshell whose beauty, had it been encountered by the Cold War-exiled in her home region, would have lead them to petition for an extension of their hard-labor detention. By decades.
I was on†shift as the Sunday evening Zamboni driver at Cabin John, but in the presence of this East-of-Moscow dynamo, I lost all sense of obligation. †
I†don’t want to sound disloyal to the†set-your-heart-to-swooning Red, White, and Blue set†here; I yield to no one in my appreciation for them. But from my visit East this past spring I have, you might†say, broadened the spectrum of my fairer sex admiration. Mike Vogel can confirm: to be immersed in that outpost of outlandishly flowering femininity, to share their busy Moscow sidewalks†and snuggle in next to them within the city’s world-famous underground transit†system,†is to develop a telepathic faculty for finding Baltic beauties in their comings and goings on any continent.
That was then, this was last night: oh we’re talking mouth-drying, whiplash-inducing, how-on-Earth-did-she-arrive-in-my-little-Maryland-rink luscious.†Maybe she was was 5 ‘7. Lithe. Early on this blogger-stalker adopted the view that her bluejeans, post skating, were they directed toward laundering, might have contacted†an attorney†and filed suit for abandonment. Her fractured and†halted English directed at rink staff only added to her appeal. The Sunday evening rink staff†was small,†and word spread among us quickly†that we had a patron whose limited ability with English required us to devote extraordinary courtesy and attention to getting her fitted in rental skates and out on the ice.
I felt up to the task.
I mentioned I think losing a bit of my†Zamboni/rink management work ethic by virtue of her arrival.†The other 50 or so†session patrons†formed an unattended-to line of outrage at the skate exchange while I stood behind it gazing, transfixed, at the beauty’s efforts to lace up her skates. Then I watched her march in perfect balance†and confidence toward Cabin John’s Olympic ice sheet. Siberia, I thought, cradle of the bladed from birth.†
Time for the remainder of the planet marched onward, but†I was†lodged within that rarefied, timeless, euphoric realm of crushed-by-crush. Principally, I was consumed by†this thought: if she can’t understand English, how on Earth will I flirt with her?†††††††††††
Fortunately, not long into her skating regimen, she was visited by injury, and as night shift manager, the duty was mine to attend to her.


She presented her injured wing to me back at the skate exchange. She’d acquired a rather severe scrape about her left elbow, as a modest amount of blood testified. She held it up for me to inspect. Briefly I considered canceling the session and closing the facility so that I might transport the victim to†Bethesda’s Suburban hospital in my Jeep, at warp speed. Instead†I hurdled the counter and raced toward the facility’s snack bar, to assemble a makeshift ice pack. I returned and presented her with the ice pack and offered to cleanse the wound with antiseptic and gauze, and then obviously follow with shoulder massage. She expressed appreciation for the ice but seemed embarrassed to accept the fuller prescription for remedy called for in Keeley’s Principles of Medical Physiology†, vol. 1.
She held the ice pack to her elbow, and we started to chat, as best we could.
“You’re from Russia, aren’t you?” I asked.
“[Unintelligible — certainly unspellable], in Siberia,” she responded. †
“I made my first visit to Russia this past†May, to Moscow,” I replied. “I loved it.”
She smiled but remained conspicuously quiet, as if she’d understood little beyond the word ‘Moscow’.
“How long have you been in the U.S?” I pressed onward, undeterred.
She smiled again but shook her head. Speed dialing Chesnokov’s cell phone would only further confuse her, I reasoned. †††
Back on the ice she went, back to bachelor’s strategizing I returned.
Within my supervisor’s powers I hold the ability –†albeit sanctionable†perhaps (likely)†by suspension –†to redirect admisison tickets that went unstamped by cashiers during the day to young ladies I’d rather prefer to see returned for skating in the future, unencumbered by entry cost. Had I done this before yesterday? I cannot recall. Anyway, yesterday’s stack of tickets was thick and high; so necessarily I resolved†to go†through every one seeking just a pair I could pass off to my would-be beloved’s hand.†Deep into the endeavor I found them. As the angel exited the session I handed them to her. She didn’t quite recognize their significance at first, but some seconds later, when I was nearly out of ear reach from her, she shouted “Thank you.” †
I feel like I know my friend Dmitry and how he will respond to this set of circumstances. I wager that he will make it his life’s mission this week to get me fluent in a handful of sentences in Russian so as to make a favorable impression on the Skating Queen should she return to my rink next Sunday night.
I could have used his help back in May. ††

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8 Responses to Smitten by the Siberian in Skates

  1. maruk says:

    Don’t you have a camera on your cell phone? No, wait, I mean an x-ray machine. You don’t want any broken bones occurring on your watch……

  2. pgreene says:

    not that you haven’t described her well, but i have to agree with dennis. no picture? best wishes in your endeavors with her in the future.

  3. Gustafsson says:

    We should be grateful that our wordy blogger can navigate the technology to post his eloquent words describing the international intrigue.
    We may have a better chance of said blogger learning Russian than acquiring a camera phone, snapping a picture of the starlit and successfully including the image in the post.
    We kid because we love. 😉

  4. pepper says:

    Perhaps it is best that a photo was not included with this impassioned report. This way, we can all use our imagination to the fullest and vicariously enjoy pandb’s lustful account of all that he saw and heard, envisioning the most amazing beauty, instead of being bogged down with the inevitable critical remarks about how she doesn’t quite measure up to such effusive praise.

  5. Vogs says:

    JK, Hope Anna doesn’t get wind of this latest fancy of yours.

  6. OrderedChaos says:

    Well put Pepper — sometimes a thousand words are worth more than a picture.

  7. James Mirtle says:

    Heh, good stuff. All I remember about working at the rink was patrons trying to fight each other.

  8. SovSport says:

    You should have dialed me, my friend! I was home. I got so sick after waiting for AO and AS last Friday. I still am sick.

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