Spasiba

As a treat to honor of my upcoming 50th birthday, I took myself to Frenchy’s Day Spa for a manicure and pedicure. There’s nothing like looking down at ten shiny toes to put a smile on a girl’s face. It’s rare that I splurge on self-indulgences these days, so I couldn’t wait to have my hands and feet massaged and primped.

‘Ludmilla’ calls me over and gestures to have a seat. In a heavy Russian-sounding accent, she asks the usual “make the customer comfortable” questions as she goes about the business of turning my tootsies into treasures. “You married?” she asks. “Yes,” I answer. She follows with, “Children?” “Not yet, but we’re in the process of adopting.” “Oh blessing,” she says softly touching my hand. “We’re adopting from Armenia,” I tell her.

Her eyes grow wide as saucers. “My husband Armenian. I Azerbaijan.” “Armenian friends,” she says excitedly, gesturing toward two women bent over customers on the other side of the salon. She tells me that her father was Hungarian and her mother Azerbaijani. The conversation becomes very animated. Ludmilla doesn’t speak much English and all I know of Russian besides borscht is Spasiba, thank you. So I keep saying Spasiba and trying to answer her questions.

She wants to know if we will adopt a boy or a girl. Probably a boy, I tell her. Most families seem to want girls and we said boy or girl, so probably a boy. I’m not sure how much of the commentary she’s taking in, but I know she understands boy. Do I have picture? No. Name? No.

Age? Maybe a year or a bit older. We don’t know. We haven’t met him yet. I try to explain that we are waiting still for Armenian Prime Minister approval. I mention Tigran Sargsyan, the Prime Minister and Ludmilla helps me say his name correctly, rolling the r’s.

She tells me over and over that what we are doing is a blessing. I want to wrap my arms around her and give her a hug. Her words make me, an outsider, feel welcome. I am truly touched since I know that for many from that region, the Diaspora is hard. Of the nine million Armenians in the world, only three million live in Armenia.

I ask about her family, mother and father? All dead. Her husband’s family? Also dead. She has one daughter, who is twenty-two and living with her.

The hour passes quickly. My calluses have vanished, my fingernails are a luminous pink and my toes twinkle with red like fresh-picked Bing cherries. The deepest glow comes from within. My heart has been pampered too.

I stand up to leave, and as I press a tip into her hand Ludmilla presses her business card into mine. She tells me I must bring a picture in to show her the child we will adopt. I promise than when I have one, I will.