The Camo-Barbie Onslaught

Scott and I recently discovered that Klaipeda roughly translates to "dirty foot" in Lithuanian. Which explains the numerous mud-encrusted brass imprints of feet scattered throughout the city. It may also explain the tendency of women to wear utterly ridiculous, sometimes downright punishing shoes. But, let's be honest, it also explains a lot more than I would prefer. I can hear it now.

"Oh, you lived in Europe? I lived in Europe, too!"
"Cool! Where?"
"Dirty Foot."
"...Oh."

It's a great city, don't get me wrong. It's just that the city’s name sounds bad enough without knowing it’s been christened "nasty hoof." All I can hope is that Klaipeda is not, in addition, the name of some rank fungal infection, especially not one contracted by wandering around without shoes. Luckily, my Lithuanian will most likely never reach the level of identifying fungal infections. Thank God.

Regardless, the historic city of Dirty Foot is the one where now our own dirty feet tread, end to end, old town to university and back again. We’ve estimated that, on our short days, we still log about 5 miles and, on long days, close to 10. With all that plodding back and forth, something’s bound to happen. I knew, with the prevalence of alcohol abuse, that there was the chance of getting harassed by a drunken person or two. What I didn’t expect was what actually happened.

It was Friday evening, and Scott and I were walking back from a faculty dinner. We’d been told that it’s best to speak at a moderate volume and avoid eye contact with people on the street-with some men doing otherwise can be seen as a challenge-so we were minding our own business and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. One thing that remains conspicuous, however, is our speed. With our long legs and capitalistic sense of time management, we pass Lithuanians as though they’re standing still. Not so, though, when we passed the inebriated flock of life-size Barbies in their skin-tight, camouflage tank tops and, of course, matching forest-green stiletto heels. At the precise moment of our passing, they erupted into riotous giggles, lunged at Scott with their pea-colored fingernails, and began chasing him around a human-sized shrub in the middle of the sidewalk. In the twilight, I watched his awkward dance from the other side of the tree as he side-stepped, ducked, jumped, and dove his way out of what has probably been, at some point, the impossible fantasy of many teenage boys.

At that moment, besides horror and confusion, I also experienced a deep sense of pride. I imagined us having the conversation back in the relative boredom of our apartment. “No, seriously, if, like, 10 beautiful women threw themselves at you, all at once, what would you do?” “Run away.” He’d been telling the truth!

Scott finally extricated himself from the roiling mass of beauty queens and came running at me full speed, his face full of a frenetic, terrified glee. Suddenly, out from the shadows, two Barbies pounced, one from either side, and caught hold. One held him still while the other brushed back his hair with her hand and planted a greasy, red kiss on the center of his cheek. Poor, bewildered Scott could not find his words. They were laughing and shouting something in Lithuanian. “Nekaulbu,” I said. “Nekaulbu Lietuviske.” We don’t speak Lithuanian.

The laughter stopped. The head Barbie spoke. “She’s getting married tomorrow. It’s tradition to give 100 men 100 kisses.”

Scott clapped awkwardly. “Congratulations!” he cried.

“What a strange tradition,” we remarked to each other as we continued home.

At least it had nothing to do with kissing dirty feet.