I was born in 1981 and my first memory of international news was the conclusion of Berlin’s wall in 1989. Soon the USSR dissolved and I remember that too. Over the years, I watched the maps and globes in our classrooms change, new countries appeared, and the bulk of what was called the USSR turned into “Russia.” I was told that it was called Russia before and that’s what it’s called again. I didn’t understand the particulars of what was going on and yet I observed as all the shifts took place. It was an exciting time!

I knew the USSR was “our enemy,” but this didn’t strike any terror in my heart. Certain kids on the playground were also my enemy and they seemed much more frightening than the USSR. Still, some harmful anti-Russian imprinting must have occurred during these years because Russians have always seemed like some enigmatic “other” to me: mysterious and maybe even untrustworthy. Sort of Western like me–certainly more Western than other cultures–and yet inexplicably different. I perceive some unbridgeable cultural divide between us.  

Before I moved to Boston, my only access to an actual (ex-)Soviet individual was through Yakov Smirnoff’s regular appearances on the sitcom Night Court. He seemed like a fun enough “foreign” guy, and yet I simply perceived him to be an American like me (albeit a bit more odd.) His jokes about the crazy “oddity” of the Soviet state only served to further entrench in me this idea of there being some hopelessly wide cultural divide between us. If not for his willingness to translate silly Soviet ways into American humor, maybe, it seemed, I would have been left in the dark altogether. Russians were simply too bizarre to understand without a funny cultural interpreter.

Once in Boston, I began regularly interacting with Russian immigrants at my work. These short, babushka-wearing old ladies would come into Whole Foods together, shopping hand-in-hand. They’d buy huge bags of rolled oats, shrink-wrapped packages of frozen rabbits, and the occasional bag of eggplants or beets taken from the sale rack in the produce department. They didn’t speak a word of English. They’d point at things they wanted and make grunting sounds and walk away without a thank-you. Some of my coworkers complained about them, and I mostly found them amusing. I marveled at how culturally different they were from me and wondered how they got about without knowing English. Despite all this, I always saw them as Americans first and Russians second. In the very least, their loyalty did not lie with Russia and the ex-Soviet states.

And now I’m in Vietnam and the beaches are completely loaded with Russian tourists. There are more Russians visiting here than any other group. Actual Russians! From Russia! Storefronts have signs in Russian and carry goods geared to Russians. Restaurant menus come in Russian first and English second (if at all!) At night I return to my non-Russian backpacker hostel and the Russian families return to their Russian resorts, and during the day we cross paths on the sidewalks and on the beaches and in the business which cater to both. I watch them closely with great curiosity. How different are they exactly? 

I notice that the first Russian woman I pass has a large tattoo of Mickey Mouse on her leg. And how curious is that? If I’m to believe the news reports that say Russians are virulently anti-American, that makes a large Mickey Mouse tattoo curious indeed. At lunch yesterday, I watch the Russian family across from me. They talk to the workers in thick-accented English and wear English-language t-shirts. One shirt says “San Francisco.” The kids hungrily eye my Harry Potter book and watch me with what I interpret as curiosity and jealousy. They begin to fidget in their boredom and turn to their parent’s cellphones for distraction. At dinnertime, I sit in large outdoors restaurant. A Russian couple sits nearby, chain smoking cigarettes and knocking back beers. A very large rat runs across the floor and the lady throws her hands up and screams! Blinded by fear, she fails to see that the rat ran right under their table! The man notices, and remains sitting back in his chair calmly, and puffs on his cigarette and laughs. He watches me watching them and he gives me a wink in recognition of our shared knowledge. I laugh too.

Today at lunch, as I sipped iced coffee and munched on some spring rolls, three middle-aged Russians came in. They wore Crocs and Tevas and sat right next to me. The man was shirtless; one lady was decked out in animal prints. The oldest lady wore a large American flag babushka; a huge bald eagle sprawled across her forehead. They order three bánh mìs and eat their appetizers with chopsticks.

Regarding the Russians, I keep looking for what separates us. So far I’m coming up empty.