Men's Day

This weekend was pretty crazy.
The 23 of February is a holiday that in concept is like America's Veteran's Day, but in practice is Men's Day. Because almost every Russian man was in the military he has the right on this day to do whatever he pleases.
"Really?" you might ask, "Isn't every day Men's Day in Russia, Nicole?"
I would tend to agree, but according to Soviet-instilled tradition, there must be a day when men can feel extra comfortable having their way.
My Grand Man Day began when I decided to meet my friend Emily at Gostiny Dvor metro in Downtown Petersburg. I was a little early and she was a little late, so I was waiting outside for awhile when suddenly I heard a megaphone and saw the majority of people scramble away from the area, so I decided to go inside to wait for Emily.
When Emily got there we decided to get out of the way as soon as possible, which meant we darted off without really knowing where we were going. On our walk we realized that Militsia (Russian police) were everywhere, including OMAN, the scariest of the Militsia, with their giant scarier-than-paddywagon trucks.
So... we kept moving and ended up in front of the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood, so we went inside.
The rest of my day was pretty normal, but the night was slightly strange. Men's Day is known as one of the most dangerous nights of the year, and I was set to be extremely careful when I went out with friends. When it was time to eat dinner, my host mom asked me if I wanted to drink beer, and I said, "No thanks you" but in Russian. Then, when her boyfriend came in the room he asked her if I was drinking and she said, "I asked her, she said no." In response, he asks me again, and when I repeat, "No thank you," he responds, "Why not? It's my day, and you won't drink with me?" So, as you can probably guess, my next response was,"Okay, I can."
An hour later I set off to meet my friends outside a metro station downtown. I was walking in the back of the group, and after only a few paces a guy reaches around my waist and pulls me backwards. I elbowed him in the stomach and ran away without looking back.
Then, while dancing at the Castro-Themed club Fidel I kept awkwardly avoiding a Russian guy who was whispering in my ear. When it was time to leave, two Moroccan guys who had apparently fallen in love with two of my friends followed us out so we chatted until we could get them to stay behind as we walked home.

I realize that everything sounds less exciting as a blog and I've lost the drive to write about Sunday, which wasn't as interesting.