Sometimes the hardest thing about cultural differences is convincing the nation in question that it really displays them. I, for one, bristle at the suggestion that all Americans are noisy. Some Americans are perfectly quiet! Russians, likewise, aren't always fond of being categorized. I've had a terrible time convincing them of several things I know for a fact to be true.


Yes, you do jump up on the metro several minutes before your stop and get ready to exit, even when the car is completely empty and there are no people to push through. Yes, there is a tendency to invite people over for an hour knowing you won't let them leave for six more. And yes, you are all named Oleg and Irina. Not literally, of course, but there's no denying that the Russian name pool is shallower than some. Oh, there's an occasional Daniil or Agata thrown in for spice, but the majority of the population seems to fall under an umbrella of 20 or so golden standards: Sasha, Natasha, Katya, Sergei, Igor, etc.


One Russian with a distinctly unusual name -- we'll call him "Benito" to protect the innocent -- recently described the horror of growing up with the brand of a hard-currency appellation -- moreover, one with no obvious nickname. "All those pink-cheeked Dimas and Tanyas," he said, shaking his head with a haunted look. "I was an outsider in my own country!"


As one American who grew up wishing her name was Jennifer, I believe it. It's important to fit in, and this closely cropped system of naming guarantees that at least on paper you're no different from anyone else. It's also a tremendous time-saver -- instant name recognition, and never any fears of mispronunciation or written error. Chances are you've never heard anyone here saying, "Masha? How do you spell that?" If she lived in the West, her name could be spelled Macha, or Maatia, or any other variety of ways, and people would invariably pronounce it wrong the first time. In Russia there's no room for doubt.


On the other hand, there's plenty of room for confusion. So many people, so few names. Chances are you've got several acquaintances in nearly every category. Keeping them all distinct and orderly in your mind is as much work as memorizing the roll call at a session of the United Nations. Eventually you'll have to subdivide: There's tall Andrei and short Andrei; my Vitya and your Vitya; the Olga who wears glasses, the Olga who doesn't wear glasses, and that one other Olga who isn't either one of those two. You can call them by their last names, a tactic Russians often resort to themselves, or you can modify first names according to varying degrees of affection -- Margarita, Rita, Ritochka, and so on and so forth. So few names, so many possibilities.