We used to have this older Russian lady who sat in front of us at the opera. As you can tell, at first we found her comical, what with her heavy Natasha accent and that time she wore a brown bouffant wig to Parsifal.

But as time went on, we secretly became impressed by her knowledge of the music and the performers. If a singer she liked was performing, she would lean forward in her seat and sway to the music, bobbing her head sharply to indicate her pleasure with the way the singer had handled a particular line. If a non-classic opera was being presented (for example, Sweeney Todd) she just didn't show up. She often chatted with our neighbors about her favorite singers and where one could rent the best opera DVDs ("On the Internet, dahlink"), but we had not broken the ice with her ourselves.

Then one intermission mr rampy bumped into her outside during a smoke break and managed to engage her in chit-chat. She was very complimentary that a couple so young would be regular opera-goers, and they commiserated about how horrible The Great Gatsby had been a few years previously (and oh, it was--mr rampy left at intermission and went next door to drink until it was over; I was stubborn and stayed to get my money's worth).

When mr rampy and she returned to our section (I was sitting in my seat reading the program), she sailed a few rows over to talk to some other friends, and mr rampy began whispering an account of their conversation to me.

"She thinks you're 17," he was hissing just before she joined us.

And sure enough, the first thing she did was to comment on how young I look. Then she asked if me if I was Dutch. Not so much. Unbowed, she inquired if I had ever been to Copenhagen, and when I admitted I had, she said that she had been sure I was Dutch because I looked like everyone in Copenhagen.

Which is in Denmark, but whatever. If a stylish Russian �migr� wants to think you're a 17-year-old Dutch girl, you agree with her and that's that.