Things of the Russki variety

So yesterday I had my first Russian lesson (which I just misspelled as lesion for no reason known to anyone sane... though perhaps it does make a certain sense, considering) with the minirussian. Who I should probably stop referring to as the minirussian, seeing as he is a very nice (though a tad skeezy) person who is teaching me Russian for kicks and possibly some secretarial help. And I don't know. The whole thing was vaguely weird, in a way. I was trying so hard to not have it be in any way sketchy... We met up at Au Bon Pain, but then it was too loud to have me repeating words with the bizarre Italian accent I instantly assume upon learning any language, ever. He suggested a school building, I dodged the explanation of why I didn't want to go there by just citing "an aversion" which luckily he found a charming enough term to not pursue further inquiries. Eventually I caved and offered up my apartment. On a shining platter. With a sprig of parsley at its side. This particular transaction was rendered awkward by the fact that he was pretending to not understand why it might be awkward/vaguely inappropriate to have him come to my house. He told me stories about the time he was married to an American on the walk over. Upon arriving at my house, new awkwardness presented itself in the form of where to study and what to do, not helped by the fact that I was explaining things, but in my muttering way, and he was not understanding. We ended up in the living room, and that was all fine, though vaguely surreal to have him in a teacherly setting and in my living room with my cat jumping all over the place. Minor misunderstanding at the end-- he was miffed that I had thought that this unattractive woman with whom he was speaking when I came up was his girlfriend. To my credit, I put together that observation because he said that he only got to see her on wednesdays and fridays, so I was stealing him from her, and so I made the assumption that she had decided to be cute and see him then anyway. Boh.

I don't get him. I don't get what he wants from me, I don't get why me, I don't get what in hell I have to do about this. He knows full well I'm going to be back at Harvard in the fall, possibly even studying in his department, and... boh. Maybe I'm just insane and this is a wholly fatherly interest. Maybe it'll switch to that now that he's teaching me Russian and has to put up with my being a real mortal and not being able to pronounce the word "khronometr" without stuttering and making a bizarre French intonation on the final r. Boh.