Intermezzo

Two days ago, as we came back to the apartment, the elevator didn't work. So we walked up. Ten flights of stairs.

On the way home yesterday, after our clinic adventure, we passed a gigantic, abandoned children's hospital. It seemed fitting.

Big Boy may occasionally be mistaken for a native, but I will never be. There seem to be three distinct versions of Russian women, the young, the mothers, and the retired. The young have universally adopted the ultra-ultra-low cut jeans and super tight belly shirts. You hardly see any navels, though, you just see a startlingly broad expanse of what's south of the navel to the beltline. They also totter about on frighteningly fragile-looking high heels. The mothers are generally what you think of when you stereotype Russian women - stout, no-nonsense, and sturdy. Then there's the tiny old pensioners, some literally with a tin cup silently asking for rubles, others with their plastic bags of stuff they carry with everywhere. Me, with my comfortable clothing and sensible footwear, I fall into none of these categories.

As we were wandering on our first night here, Big Boy and I talked about how we should go to The Idiot, because we are, indeed, idiots. It turns out, after I spent hours reading the guidebook, that The Idiot has vegetarian food.

I circled all the places on the guidebook map that indicated we would be able to eat something. We stopped at Tandoori Nights on Wednesday for a late lunch. We were both so happy. Finally, normal food. It was weird, however, to order Indian food in Russian. It was the best food we've had since we left the US, and quite decent in and of itself. The only odd thing, though, was the Aloo Gobi (cauliflower & potatoes with yummy spices). This is Russia, right? Home of the root vegetable? The potatoes were crinkle cut fries.