Tuesday, December 17, 1991

chapter 8 - the white stuff

The party post-mortem continued this morning, so after everything was tidied up I made my escape to the Izmailovsky market, taking the Metro. If everything in Russia ran like its Metro, this country would take over the world. And deserve it.

At each platform there is a clock indicating when the next train will arrive in increments of seconds. And it does. On the second! The trains are large, clean, fast, and cheap. Stations looks like halls in a beloved art gallery instead of venues of mass transit. Marble floors, chandeliers, sculptures, mosaics, curved ceilings, soft lighting. Never have I been so impressed by a subway in all my life.

I emerged somewhat dazzled, both from the amazingly beautiful travel experience, and because a sheet of white greeted me. Snow! At last! It’s very thin, not nearly enough for a troika, but it’s snow none the less. The teeming market was abundant with Russian handicrafts. I bought a tea glass like the ones I have been using every day, a thin glass set in a decorative metal holder. A wonderful embroidered shawl for Mom and a set of matryoshka nesting dolls depicting famous Russian scientists for Dad. Things for Sidney and Sam and all their progeny, canine and otherwise. I was in danger of getting completely carried away. I realized I hadn’t really seen or talked to any of them in years. Not really. I have stayed alone and disconnected. Distance does that. But I’m beginning to suspect geographical distance isn’t the only culprit. I felt homesick for the first time in, well, maybe forever!

The market sellers were as determined as any in any market anywhere in the world. “Look, very fine. And cheap. Cheap at half the price.” ‘Of course it’s cheap at half the price’, I wanted to say – ‘it’s half the price. What you mean to say is it’s cheap at twice the price.’ But of course I didn’t say anything. I’m beginning to see that really is a problem. How can I expect other people to understand what I think if I don’t say anything? They can’t all be as intuitive as Hamish. Hamish understood me so well.

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