I was running late and knew I had to take a marshrutka if I was going to make it to class on time.
I waved down a 455 as soon as I got to the side of the road. Shoving my way on through the crowd of people, I finally got situated between the fat man and the door. But the door wouldn't shut. And suddenly, massive amounts of pain shot up from my foot.
Glancing down at the location of the pain, my eyes bulged. My boot was stuck. The door couldn't shut. The marshrutka started to drive off, as I felt the wind rush past me. I tried to cling onto the railing, but I was slipping and fast.
All around me were Ukrainians babbling at me, screaming something that I couldn't understand. "Ya nye govoryu po-russki! Ya nye znayu chto ti govorish! Ya nye ponimayu!" I kept screaming at them. It was the only Russian I could think of at the moment. I don't speak Russian, I don't know what you're saying, and I don't understand. But they just kept babbling.
Finally I was able to yank my foot free as a man reached down and pulled. He gave me a creepy grin as he looked up at me, seeming to expect something from me.
"Chto vash nomer?" he asked me. Eww, I thought with disgust. There's no way this 40 year old man asked for my number.
"Chto vash nomer?" he asked again. And when I didn't reply and turned away from him, he wrapped his arm around me.
I made a point of getting off at the next stop, no matter how far away I was. The door swung open and I jumped. I started walking, instantly regretting it. Looking at my surroundings, I grumbled a bit. I still had a mile to walk, with an aching foot.
"I'm never wearing these boots again."
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