Tacos and Weirdos

Yesterday night Patricia and I went to the place where the cool kids hang out: the Meatpacking District.
Since we didn't think about booking a table in any club and we weren't in Halloween costumes, we just went for a drink in a beer garden. Unfortunately it seems like having an accent means attracting every desperate guy who wants to start a conversation.
After meeting a few of them we now have a set of answers ready to go: yes, we're not from New York, Australian, Italian, I hate flying, she likes it, both Catholics, but I'm not. We work in the same place. No, we're not giving you any phone number because, let's be honest, we're never gonna answer. Oh and did I mention I have a Russian boyfriend?

There was this weird Oklahoma guy who was very disappointed by the fact that I'm not married yet, the classic Catholic who went to Medjugorje but doesn't know that the Pope lives in Italy. As I said: classic.
So this champion was asking me how I'm going to survive when I'll be back in Italy. So I said: it's not a jungle, you know, it's a Country. Oh, and did I mention I have a Russian boyfriend who's very aggressive?

When we'd had enough of this pointless conversation (actually I was enjoying myself by shocking this weirdo saying I don't believe in marriage and I don't think being 24 and not married is a shame) we stopped at an ATM and Patricia was asking me to tell her a random Russian name to make up a fake boyfriend for future harassers. Guess what: the guys who were using the ATM turn around and say: what a strange accent, where are you from?
Oh my God, really?
Australian, Italian, we were talking about my Russian, aggressive boyfriend who used to be a Hooligan.