Q: What will you do when you get back to the states?

I know you're expecting that here is where I will mope over what I've lost, but there's been entirely too much of that lately, so I will limit myself to delights and whatever gripes don't involve a solid 25 hours of traveling.

When Danielle was helping me carry my FIVE bags downstairs to find a taxi to take me to the airport express train to take me to Sheremetevo (whew), we were stymied by our broken door. Then a typical Russian man (all in black, sunglasses, cell phone attached to belt, briefcase) came barrelling through it, and he asked us where we were going. He offered me a ride to Vodny; when he learned that I was actually going to Savelovskii Vokzal, he offered me a ride there instead. I'd already popped half a xanax, Danielle had the number of the militsia, and I had a 70 pound suitcase. So off we went.

This was one final test of my conversational Russian before I leave, and I have to say, I rocked. Vlad and I talked about work, our respective salaries, traffic in our cities, green spaces, and fencing. It's a measure of my cultural adjustment that when he told me that my suitcase was "just impossible for a girl to take on the metro," I agreed -- and completely meant it. When we got to the vokzal, Vlad and the militsia officer had an argument about parking his car there, and he insisted that my bags were too heavy to park elsewhere. Finally, when I offered to pay him a little, he shrugged it off and insisted that it was all in the spirit of international friendship.

What followed was the usual airport maze, a 10 hour flight to New York, then a 5 hour layover. I know you don't care about that. Actually, there's probably only one question you have.

Q: What was the first thing you ate when you got back to America, Ebeth?

A: A turkey sandwich. It was terrible, I'm sure, but I really enjoyed it. This was followed by a Frosty and french fries.

Q: A Frosty? I thought you only liked Russian morozhenoe!

A: I'm on some kind of campaign to eat everything in sight for the first 24 hours.

So what do I have to show for my time in Russia?

- some research

- Russian that's good enough to carry on a general conversation

- insatiable hunger for ice cream and Milka bars

- a dead computer

- a serious grudge against the established media

- new appreciation for hot showers and public parks

And what do you have to show for my time in Russia? Let's test your skills.

Go ahead.

poll by twiigs.com

Moscow/City

Unlike this guy, I experience preemptive nostalgia. So the last few days, or sometimes weeks or even months, before I leave a place take on that special glow. This is usually wonderful: it makes pleasant things bittersweet (so I really try to enjoy them) and unpleasant things bearable (I have in mind here mainly the cold water affair -- really not so bad after a long day on the metro). Just keep this in mind when you're tempted to roll your eyes at the following.

Yesterday Kostya and I met to exchange gifts, and then we got a bite to eat. I have to admit I was apprehensive. He speaks very little English, I find men on the whole more difficult to understand, and finally, what did we have to talk about? I needn't have worried about the last point -- we covered:

a. Joe Biden in Ukraine and Georgia

b. Chechnya

c. the Gates debacle

d. Russian stereotypes

e. the Cuyahoga River

f. Kazakhstan in comparison with other Central Asian republics

g. tomato-growing and attendant problems, именно raccoons -- "енот," in case you were wondering

h. why Russia and America don't get along

It was a good test of my conversational Russian, and I understood at least the gist of everything above. I also hit a career high for ice cream consumption, which due to aforementioned phenomenon, did in fact taste sweeter than usual. But the best part was that, because of the Blue Beret festivities (who are they? -- be warned, it's more than you ever wanted to know) and subsequent mutual fear for my safety on the metro, he drove me home. There is, in my opinion, very little that compares to being driven through a city at night at high speed (excepting, ahem, my doing the driving). It's a great way to see the city, it's a special treat after the metro, and it's summertime. This was made even more, скажим, interesting than usual by the fact that Kostya kept pointing out his various projects while driving, bringing us alarmingly close to the guardrails on the on-ramp. Someone who can talk on his cell phone, shift gears, and point out nighttime attractions all at the same time is a guy after my own heart. So what did we see?

Moscow City, where he proudly showed me the largest digital clock in the world, lit by his company. Here is a hilarious entry about it.

His other project was construction crane on top of a building; these are semi-permanent fixtures now that the crisis has called a halt to a lot of building projects. It was outlined in neon blue. Tacky? Actually no. It's a crane -- anything's an improvement.

These are all newish buildings towards the center. Out by me it's all strip mall-type neon lights. Look, I know you think it's ugly and modern. And if you're like Andrew Biliter from the link above, you might add cheesy AND dystopian (only here is that combination even possible). But I think it's gorgeous.

But that's not all; the glow extended much, much further. I also:

1.had TWO great interviews, one set up just hours in advance. However, when I arrived at the second one on time -- a minor miracle in its own right given that this organization had two different offices at the SAME address but actually in two different buildings (yeah, that's what I've been trying to tell you) -- I asked for a glass of water, and in the midst of changing the water cooler, my interviewee pushed a plastic piece into the bottle, at which point I watched as all five office employees attempted to retrieve it with any number of implements, including a ruler, tongs, several knives, and fingers. Needless to say, the interview was a raging success.

2. bought all the souvenirs I could carry, including one fantastic purchase that the recipient will probably be less excited about than I am, in which case I'm keeping it. You know something strange is going on when I'm able to tolerate Arbat Street.

3. had another heart-to-heart with another Russian. Как ни странно, the Cuyahoga River did NOT come up. Weird. Also, it's not fair that I've only just discovered poppy-seed blinchiki.

4. found the Baltika rainbow in my supermarket after all,

5. saw the sky glowing across Leningradskoe Shosse,

6. opened the broken door to my apartment building to find the whole staircase smelling of flowers, and

7. discovered a use for the abandoned washer.

Oh Moskva. Never has one woman loved you for so many of the wrong reasons.

One unrelated thing [Q: Unrelated to what, Lizakhon? This whole post is a jumble of things. A: Oh please, this post is about how amazing Moscow is, AGAIN. This paragraph, on the other hand, is about the bad news for Dmitri Anatolyevich]: Danielle and I went to see the Faberge Exhibit at the Pushkin Museum of Art Special Collections Museum [Q: How was it? A: I am strangely seized by the desire to own a cigarette case. That is to say, fabulous] and it was there that I first noticed the striking resemblance Nicholas II has to a certain leader close to our hearts. It's uncanny. Apparently I'm not the only one who has noticed this: Look at this! It's incredible! No wonder Putin is more popular with the Russian public. Don't worry Dimz, you're still #1 with ... me.

Cold and Hot (much like my taps, assembled every which way such that even Katy Perry would be confused.)

Since we last hung out and listened to music together,

I have:

1. had my hot water shut off for the annual pipe-checking (or whatever it is they do for 10 days while the hot water for a whole neighborhood is off). I don't know how everyone else deals with this, but I do not.

2. flubbed an interview.

3. seen the trashiest wedding dress of all time.

I've seen a fair number of wedding dresses here and there, but this one made my jaw drop, so I know you want to hear about it (or at least JPey does). Imagine the reverse mullet as interpreted in ivory lace. If you only saw it from the back, you would think it was inoffensive, if fussy. It had a floor-length full skirt, a vague but functional top part, and a floaty, half-hearted veil. Perfectly normal and appropriate. But the front was -- well, the top was a transparent corset, and the bottom a mini-skirt. Of ivory lace! That sloped down on the sides to a full-length skirt in back! Oh, how I wish I had managed to get a picture.

Now if it is your fondest girlhood dream to look like a prostitute on your wedding day, I can respect that (with minimal snickering) and admire your audacity. But the combination of the two -- one part Victorian bride, one part stripper -- made me wonder if this dress was some sort of compromise (between the bride and her mother, the bride and her sister, the bride and her own twisted, Posh-like sense of fashion) or just a failure of nerve. I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit this, because it's awfully snotty of me, but I thought the best part was that they were taking pictures in front of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. Fitting.

4. been to a fantastic museum, just a hundred yards away from above event, and just when I thought I'd seen everything in the way of art museums here.

This is the part of the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts (Государственный музей Изобразительных Исскуств им. А.С. Пушкина) called the Gallery of American and European Art of the 19th-20th Centuries.

Now before you get all huffy that I'm excited about the American and European art wing in Moscow, just look here.

As in other museums, there's graduated pricing: for foreign students it's 150 r, about three dollars more than the Russian citizen rate (forget about the Russian student rate, which is practically free). So I was scrounging for change and getting increasingly pissed off in the process (I was mainly upset because I didn't have enough money on me, and because the exchange rate has taken a dive over the last week, and because I already take enough flack for being foreign. Okay, that last one's not true, but I object to discriminatory pricing practices.) So I scowled broadly, told the woman that I didn't have "sufficient money," and walked away.

"Devuska," I hear behind me, and I turn to see her motioning to me conspiratorially. She slides across the calculator with "100" typed out. I shell it out (hey, it's a 33% discount), and she gives me a 60 r. citizen's ticket. Where does the extra 40 go? Who knows?

I'm just happy to get into this fantastic little museum. I snuck some photos for you again. That's the main hallway. See the lights?

The first floor was 19th century. The second floor was mostly Impressionists, which I'm not crazy about. I like geometric things.

At the top of the staircase:

That is my kind of Notre Dame, all straight lines and grays and browns (it's even more severe than the picture makes it look). The thing in front is a burned violin encased in plastic. It's called "Burnt out Violin."

But I also got to see Paolo and Francesca, Kandinsky, Picasso, a whole room of Matisse, and then, in the last little alcove, two Chagalls that were breathtaking. I didn't even get irritated with the loud English guys in front of me.

5. attended "Giselle." Perhaps my feelings on this ballet could be surmised from the following summary. Giselle, initially dressed like Dorothy, falls in love with a nobleman who's disguised himself as a peasant. When his true identity - and betrothal to a condescending artistocrat -- is revealed, Giselle dies of a broken heart. But! In the second act, she returns as a ghost to save her very betrayer from death. You see, he's come to mourn her in a graveyard at night, where he almost falls prey to the ghosts of other jilted girls who, dressed as a troop of dead brides, like to take their revenge on men by dancing them to death. Here's a clip.

Did you guess how well I liked it? If this is what Misha and Tanya had tickets for when they were late to the Bolshoi, they didn't miss much. But maybe I'm being unfair -- my Russian friend seemed to think this group in particular was mediocre.

As far as I understood it, the choreography from their performance debuted in 1944 and has not changed since then. Notice the peasant girl ultimately triumphs in the class struggle of the first act. Well, morally.

Check it out:

This was performed in the National Youth Theatre. There was a sign asking spectators to refrain from bringing large purses, drinks, and ice cream into the auditorium. Ice cream, I thought, Really? Is it that much of a problem? But at intermission, everyone was drinking chilled champagne and eating ice cream from Mary Coyle-style bowls, which made a lot of sense since the building was not air conditioned. Poor Giselle.

I have not:

1. had a single pleasant experience in the Russian post office.

Me: I'd like five stamps, please.

[I'm holding out my 50 r. bill because each stamp costs 10 r. It's a straightforward transaction.]

Pochta Lady: How many postcards do you have?

Me: It doesn't matter; I'd like five stamps please.

PL: How many postcards do you have?

[Look. I have one postcard. But you know what, I might buy more in the future! Maybe I have a letter I want to sent -- gasp! -- WITHIN Russia! Maybe I want to send a package somewhere! Maybe I want to send a heavy letter, not just a postcard!]

Me: I have one. But I want five stamps.

PL: But you need two stamps per postcard.

[For the love of God, lady, I know that it doesn't make any sense to you why someone who can't remember the genitive plural of "stamps" (argh, I should have asked for 4) would need an ODD number of them when each postcard requires two stamps, but just SELL THEM TO ME ALREADY.]

Me: I UNDERSTAND. BUT I WANT FIVE STAMPY-THINGIES.

[Just because you're allowed to open and read my mail does not mean you know my postal needs better than I do.]

Pochta lady #2 -- interrupting her own functional transaction to step in -- getting me five stamps out of her drawer: Here.

Me: Here. Hmph.

Incivilities having been concluded, we part ways -- five stamps in my pocket, 50 r. in their coffers, and I'll make sure the next postcard I write, with my extra decyat' stamp, is addressed to them.

2. bought any more presidential merchandise. On that note, I'll leave you with this:

"There are also fewer of those who want to 'lie on the president' than those who want to 'lie on the prime minister.' Pillows with Putin's likeness sell much faster than those bearing the face of Medvedev."

Liza's Russian Mix/Day 40

With audio:

Radio Nowhere, Bruce: I've had an unexpected attraction to radio since I started working on Ekho Moskvy, and this song has particularly weird echoes because of that station's situation (singular status in the world of Russian media, too few listeners, uncertain future). Also it reminds me of the Cuyahoga Valley -- one of the most beautiful and unearthly places to drive on a summer night.

In my apartment, there are TWO non-functional radios and one I can't get reception on. So when I sit down to breakfast I often have no news. In an ideal world, I would eat delicious kasha (what'sthat?) every day with milk and butter while reading three different newspapers. In my little kitchen, I make "bez barki" (instant) oatmeal in assorted flavors and can't find 91.2 fm. It doesn't compare.

Why, yes, that is me sitting in the editor's seat giving directions.

The Fever, Bruce: You're coming on a little strong with two in a row, but I'll allow it. When I get home from my job, I turn on the tv. But I can't keep my mind on the show.

Here's my first problem:

That itty bitty square in the corner is my television set. But the larger problem is that shows are often dubbed in English such that I am physically unable to listen to just one language and as a result end up understanding nothing at all. So I avoid American shows. Luckily, Danielle has found the greatest show called "Brachnoye Shtuvo" which requires little listening comprehension to get. First of all, because indecency laws are different, the show has graphic footage where the only things blurred out are the people's faces. Scandalous! Second, the hosts/investigators take themselves very seriously.

I did a screen shot to show you.

1,2,3,4; Feist: I have a story for you. It's the story of EVERY SINGLE TIME I have tried to go anywhere. First of all, building numbers are never in obvious places, different sides of the street have misaligned numbers (so you can have #20 across from #2), and buildings can span half a block or more and all have the same number. In the latter case, you also need to have an entrance number. But here's the thing -- entrances aren't always marked with their numbers, and sometimes entrances are not on the street but inside a courtyard or around the back of the building.

Once you get to the correct building (dom #) and entrance, there is often a propusk station. This is the place where you must get a pass in order to enter the building itself. To get the pass, someone from the office you're visiting has to request it, which requires your name, passport number, date of birth, citizenship, and so on. It has taken me up to 4 hours and 5 trips back and forth to get this sorted out in the past.

Of course, all of the above assumes you have

a. a clear idea of which metro exit you need to take,

b. the telephone number of the person who will get you a propusk if it's not ready,

c. at least half an hour of extra time and

d. an extraordinary tolerance for bureaucracy and its rituals.

Radiation Vibe, Fountains of Wayne: Yeah, you were right about this one. It's the kind of quintessentially American song that could never translate for Russia. Right? But isn't California Dreamin? And the Bee Gees? Nevertheless I've heard all of those remixed and played with a booming bass. Songs from the 90s are especially popular. And then again, I've heard "You Can't Always Get What You Want," "Creep," and "What's Love Got To Do With It" interpreted by a crooning jazz type and accompanied by piano and saxophone.

Let It Fall Apart, Helio Sequence: I'm on my way home, and even though it's almost 1, the metro is completely full, all the way to vodny stadion.

We pour out of the station, and there's this tiny strip before I get to the residential area that's full of little markets, cafes, and video shops which is always packed; it's like a boardwalk, complete with the smell of warm food, a neon glow, and tension.

First Night, The Hold Steady: BOYS AND GIRLS IN AMERICA. Don't have the problem of pda of boys and girls in Russia, nor the ruinous divorce rates, not to mention uneven life expectancies that leave all the babyshki alone. These women are in charge of the residential areas. They sit on all of the benches unoccupied by abovementioned pda couples and gossip loudly/talk about us when we walk by/accost me in the hallway to complain about the boys outside.

The thing about the uneven demographics is that it results in uneven couples, at least to my mind. A typical Moscow couple is about my age (a quarter of the population is under 35). The woman is pretty and stylish; tall, thin, beautiful hair. She's wearing a chic and perfectly fitting dress with awesome stiletto heels. She's only carrying flowers, because her fantastic bag is being carried by her dude, who's markedly less attractive than her. He's got on either a dark-colored shirt with random, incorrect English writing OR the inoffensive light-colored, short sleeved, buttoned shirt. He's almost always wearing white sandals over dark-colored socks and is carrying his own bag, which may or may not be larger than the purse. He either already has a mullet or is actively trying to achieve one. Also, she probably paid for their date tonight.

Wait for Love, Josh Ritter: I've got nothing to say here, unless by "Love," he intends "Freedom of Speech and True Democracy," in which case I completely reject Josh Ritter's exhortation.

During my tour of Ekho Moskvy, one of the reporters visiting from the regions got into an argument with the editor speaking with us; she said that even independent media was run by those with money and that reporters in all practical terms have to adjust what they're saying accordingly. She got a tongue lashing from the editor, who I believe told her that she should quit her job because she's the problem with press in this country. I completely agreed; reporters who self-censor make the job that much more difficult for ones who stand up to various sources of censorship. Don't worry, my self-righteousness met shortly with reality: when I worked for just five unpaid days at an English language paper, I experienced an overwhelming pressure to self-censor. Can you guess which part I wanted to take out?

In the blogosphere, Stephen Walt faulted Obama for not achieving any breakthroughs, calling the summit another example of Obama's "triumph of style and attitude." Michael Idov warned that Obama's courting of the liberal press and civil society is potentially harmful, while his attempt to divide Putin and Medvedev may be working: "Talk of it is guaranteed to flatter Medvedev and piss off Putin, thus making the split a tiny bit less unfeasible."

From the archives:

Slow Show, The National: If I get started here, you're in for a lecture on the National, the way I loved them before any of you johnny-come-latelies, and so on and so forth. Let's talk about novodel instead. That's the Russian word for buildings that were redone recently in such a manner as to look old (AHEM).

This includes the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, which has a fascinating history. It was built in the late 1800s to commemorate the defeat of Napoleon much earlier in the century. But then in 1931 it was destroyed to make room for the planned Palace of the Soviets, which was intended to be THE TALLEST BUILDING IN THE WORLD. Like many other Soviet plans, it was a giant failure. In this instance, there wasn't enough money for the project. So instead, it became THE BIGGEST SWIMMING POOL IN THE WORLD, which apparently was quite a successful replacement. In the 1990s, though, a replica of the original cathedral was built.

It's pretty nice for novodel; it's pretty uncool to admit this.

Ooh, Moscow Times just covered something similar.

Where you End, Moby: I've said it once before, and I think it on a daily basis: I like my personal space. But apparently so do Russians, who insist on invading it on any pretext. In St. Petersburg, our hotel's guidebook noted that often foreigners think that Russians have so sense of physical self-awareness, which I thought was an excellent summary of their physical interactions in public. They seem not to have any concept of where their own bodies end and yours begins. Instead, they bump into you, stop randomly in the street and force you to bump into them, poke you with their bony little elbows, stand too close, sit on top of you in the metro, try to hit you with their cars, approach you on the street for any number of reasons, etc. My personal favorite is that people walking behind you never actually pass but instead continue to follow at an uncomfortably close distance. How can one group of people be simultaneously so suspicious of strangers/outright xenophobic and so willing to get so close to each other?

Always on my Mind, Pet Shop Boys: This is what I envision the Russian remix would sound like. You know what's always on my mind?

Wait. Seriously -- you don't know by now? Think hard...

Aha, there you go.

Here's my official Russian ice cream ranking:

1. vanilla (first and best)

2. pistachio (bright green, delicious)

3. chocolate (also wonderful)

4. almond

5. red (aka klubinka or raspberry -- not bad)

6. papaya (mostly for its bright orange color)

7. coconut (what's the point if you can't taste it)

And the losers: caramel, white, mango, and black plum (absolutely repulsive).

I'm not going to make Elvis' mistake: when I get back to the US, I want to be so sick of Russian ice cream that I'll never want to look at it again. Until my next trip. Mission very nearly accomplished.

Every Moment, Rogue Wave: Speaking of the weather, I've heard from certain authoritative sources that Petersburg and Moscow have very unpredictable weather patterns. That doesn't begin to describe things. This morning the sky was overcast and there was even some rain as I walked out of the metro. But by the time I got to the Kremlin, it was picture-perfect:

I thought other places had unpredictable weather, but here it's the worst. It's gotten to the point where Danielle and I look at weather.com and do exactly the opposite of what it says.

The Seed, The Roots: Um, let's address the sound. It makes me feel super American, which comes in handy when I'm standing in a big crowd shuffling towards the bottom of the 100-yard escalator and I'm running late for an appointment or just generally pissed off at the fact that Russians can't do this any more efficiently. (Getting on an escalator involves congregating at its bottom, getting to the front of the crowd, then stepping on exactly two steps below the person in front of you, on the right side of your step. This rigidity of rules involving spacing is a. surprising and b. the reason there's always such a big crowd to get on the escalator.) Usually when this happens to me at rush hour, I decide that I'm going to walk up the elevator and everyone better get OUT OF MY WAY, which is a good idea for about the first twenty yards. Then suddenly I realize that I've run twice in the last six weeks and I'm desperately out of shape. I have two choices: a. admit defeat, step over to the right, and act like a normal Russian, or b. forge ahead, weirding everyone out as I do so. It's usually worth the five minutes of panting.

Somehow, Someday, Ryan Adams: So about four years ago I was all signed up for a year abroad in Moscow and decided at the last minute (aka at the DC airport) not to go for a very good personal reason. Since then I've been intending to get here, and the longer I waited the more awesome the proportions the city took on in my head.

And the longer I'm here now the more I wonder about that trip. The conclusion I've come to is that it would have been an unequivocal disaster. I had had one year of language, and my spoken Russian was not even good enough to order food at a cafe. Spending ten months in Moscow at that point would almost definitely have curtailed my Russian studies right then and there. So chalk that up to the reasons it was a good decision (along with Naz, obviously).

And even though I've spent four years building up Moscow in my head, it more than lives up to that. In fact, we could return to track 2.

Just one more glimpse of the god of my idolatry:

Enough of this lovefest.

Chocolate, Snow Patrol: Ugh. I hate Snow Patrol. Can we pretend this isn't here?

FINE. Pull it together yourself:

Aqua soccer, featuring 4 v 4 in six inches of water.

Competitive arm wrestling, with referees:

Check out that intensity. Also, I believe the loser over there has a shirt that says "Another beer." Sounds about right.

My nearest playground, home of the disappearing portrait of Lenin.

And my dom:

Daydreamin, Lupe Fiasco: Someone totally beat me to the punch. Outside of Moscow a smaller version of Peterhof is going up.

Valerie, Mark Ronson/Amy Winehouse:

a. Sometimes I go out by myself and look across the water.

b. And see this:

Muscovites dancing, without audible music, and doing whatever dance they feel like -- waltz, salsa -- who cares? It's Friday night on the river!

Not to dwell on it, but Ira Glass was SO wrong not to ask me for guidance in this city.

Homecoming, Kanye West: I know you're trying to make me homesick for Chicago, but it's not going to work. Let's compare:

	Chicago	Moscow
Public transportation	Overcrowded, overbudget, limited coverage, BUT accessible	Not overcrowded (but apparently only because of layoffs), not in constant need of multimillion dollar repairs, comprehensive but wheelchair inaccessible
Public spaces	Millennium park+ Grant park+ free beaches = you get a choice of distant and dirty or distant and clean	Lots of smaller local parks and big ones in the center; I'll take the various prudyover Foster Beach any day
Price of living	High	High
Shows	Excellent, but expensive; great smaller theaters	Although the chance I'd ever see a WNUR band is slim, all the shows I've been to have been cheap and really pretty good
Body of water	Lake Michigan and its fake beaches	Moskva
Climate	Ugh	Even worse
Population	Much beloved	Mutual indifference
Government	Daly dynasty	Luzhov [an unexpected tie!]
Sightseeing	Pretty good, and tourists are treated with Midwestern friendliness	Spectacular, but the opposite treatment can be expected
Beer	Hopleaf, Goose Island	Stardog/Every supermarket, Russian & Czech beers
Theme song	All of Kanye’s Chicago songs	“Ya idy”

Verdict: Moscow gets the win, but I'm coming home again anyway.

Let’s Kill Saturday Night, Robbie Fulks:

This town's gonna go down kicking and shouting: transcriptions over chai, Loko vs. Dinamo, Baltiki, Chisty Prudy, fireworks.

Waiting for a Star to Fall, Boy Meets Girl: I get a good chuckle out of this every time it comes on. I hope you do too. Possibly the cheesiest song of 1988-89, facing some stiff competition from Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control" and anything by the Fine Young Cannibals.

Dear Readers: I intended this to be a sort of compilation of daily experiences/highlights, but somehow it turned into my love letter to Moscow, which is understandable given that I only have about ten days left. But talk to me again once I've eaten a Swenson's burger, drunk water from the tap, slept in a bed, and not had to read about the resident government opening mail/reading emails/influencing media/killing human rights activists; and see how I feel then.