Putin, Please Have Some Soup

Kremlin guards high-stepping

The last time I tried to tell a joke in a foreign language was through a Russian translator I could not see.  I was in Moscow as part of a U.S. Senate delegation invited to consider the fate of Soviet scientists, who left unemployed in their crumbling economy, might one day consider working for terrorist states.  Should the U.S. consider hiring them?  It was 2005 and 9/11 remained real because the U.S. had two years prior invaded Iraq setting the region ablaze.  One year earlier, the U.S. Congress had passed Project Bioshield, legislation, which attempted to incentivize American pharmaceutical industry to focus less on developing purple pill knock offs and more on pills to stop people from turning purple.  At Congressional hearings, it was not uncommon to hear stories about the ease of Anthrax spread through the Capitol’s ventilation system.  An envelope filled a teaspoon of spores could theoretically infect the entire city fating millions of victims to a painful, imminent, pink-frothy death.  It was a time of intense paranoia, legislative cocooning, and distrust. 

The hall in which I was speaking was large, cold and aseptic and therefore perfect for a conference on bioterror held in the winter in Moscow.  No wonder Hitler’s armies had failed to advance. The arrangement of the hall was formal and communist.  The hall smelled like mothballs, mahogany and starch.   Long wooden tables ran perpendicular to the dais forming a shape not unlike an intensely stable bureaucratic hair-pick.  Functionaries, most appearing more than sixty years old sat side-by-side, one-after-another holding to the sides of their heads plastic flat ear pieces tenuously attached to rudimentary steel boxes located periodically and at set distances down the tables’ center as if products on a cold war production line.  For the uninitiated, delivering a speech in one language and having it translated into another in real time is both interesting and freaky.  You can’t hear exactly the translation from the shallow speakers but you are aware of it by the occasional “vitch” or “olov” you detect in mass.  It becomes like a game of Mother-May-I only without the motion.  You say one thing and wait to see if the interpretation is accurate by the response you get.  Or you say Hi my name is Wilson Wang its great to be here in Moscow and you hear, “blah blah blah..Wang…blah blah blah..Moscow…blah blah,” and you are kind of assured that the system works.

In my joke I sought commonality through local reference.  My goal was to loosen up the audience and myself really:  My talk on U.S anti-terror legislation was entirely unfunny.  My local reference points were easy and obvious:  60-proof Vodka and steaming Borscht, Russia’s traditional purple cabbage soup.  Both were immensely popular and served pretty much at every meal.  In fact, after a week in Moscow, even the U.S. delegation had acquired a kind of dependency on the mixture; a cure to homesickness through grounding and repetition of comforting communal acts.  It was initially amazing to watch our Russian hosts (until we joined them) routinely take down two to three vodka shots before consuming a breakfast of potato pancakes with a side of borscht.  Soon their faces would redden and their consonants would run together though none could be taken seriously as they spoke through purple-stained teeth, lips and tongue.  Though my colleagues from the Defense Committee likely viewed this oral transformation as symbolic of digested blood or oxygen deprivation, I associated the color with children.  My last year in college I worked at the Berkeley Lawrence Hall of Science Museum conducting birthday parties for geeky kids.  One of our activities consisted of decorating hard-boiled eggs—the time-tested crowd-pleasing American past-time?  Purple cabbage is a natural indicator, which turns white when exposed to acid.  With eggs boiled in the cabbage leaves in in advance, the children would dip q-tips in lemon juice and decorate their purple eggs in various patterns of zig-zags, swirls and lines.

Simply borscht

“Good morning. It’s great to be here, “ I began my presentation, speaking deliberately, pausing between clauses to let the translation catch up, “Our trip so far has been beautiful and your hospitality generous.  We thank you for that.”

“You know we Americans come to Russia with some stereotypes which are from lack of experience,” I continued, “we expect the Kremlin to stand stoic, for it to be cold, for Russians to be tall and carry good posture, and for Moscow streets to run very long and straight.  And truthfully, these are some of the things that have been  true so far.”

“There is one thing that has been bothering me, though,” I said, "really bothering me."  I could see the Russian audience, who only stared straight at the table space in front of them, now furrowing their brows.  The Americans in the delegation looked at me wondering where I was going with this.

“Well, you see I woke up this morning and my tongue was purple,” I said, “as a physician I can tell you that a purple tongue is not the most desired physical findings.  And as you know, it has been very cold in Moscow and we in this room are after all gathered together to consider the topic of bioterror and the chance of unintentional or intentional release of biological weapons.”

“I didn’t call my mom because she would be worried and I also can’t afford to call her from here.  I didn’t ask my American friends because then they would think that I wasn’t a very good doctor.  I decided to trace back my steps along our time in Russia because I did not have this condition back home and soon it became clear to me the cause.  Turns out that my tongue is not purple from frostbite or from microbes or gas.  Turns out that I have fallen in love with your national food.  You see, I have eaten entirely too much of your…Entirely too much of your…”

And then I blanked.  I couldn’t remember the word. The story had gone so well.  To my right, my Americans counterparts began mouthing hints at my punchline but I could not make out their lips at distance.  To my left, a small bead of sweat had begun meandering down my temple.  As the translation began to catch up, the Russian representatives began to turn their heads one-by-one from the spaces in front of them towards my lone figure at the dais.  I could see curiosity in their faces.  And then their furrowed brows kind of flexed into the opposite direction.  And as if coached for this moment, the room recited in unison, “Borscht?”

“Yes, Borsht,” I exclaimed and there was collective laughter.  A few men slapped each others backs.

I took a deep breath.  “So,” I said, and with all eyes on me, proceeded to talk about the topic of weapons, opportunity, health and war.  I felt that it was somehow possible now to have a different type of discussion.