Tag Archives: expat

Picking Up a Bib

(a running commentary of my day)

On the subway. First leg, nine stops. Then switch lines, and then another. Should take an hour and fifteen or so.

Reading a book by the fanciful and often morbid Neil Gaiman, called The Truth is a Cave in the Black Mountains. It is illustrated like a graphic novel, but not quite. There are pages with paragraphs. As an operetta is to an opera, so this book is to a graphic novel or, indeed, a regular novel itself.

It takes place on the Isle of Skye, a place I would like to visit one day.

I like this author. Some of his things are just too weird for me, but all in all, his work reminds me of high fantasy, which I love. Innocence and Experience wrapped in fanciful and exquisite imagery. Transportive.

—-

Man being questioned by police. He wasn’t doing anything, but his skin is dark. Many people from the Federation’s eastern provinces are often checked by police.

Kievskaya Station has impressive mosaics portraying the workers’, the peasants’, and the professionals’ struggle and triumph over capitalism. Russia, one and all. Ornate and unmodern, very unlike the newer stations near my home. Each kind is beautiful in its own way and, modern or not, most of the stops are really very nice.

Funneling through the lines, the term “fake it till you make it” comes to mind. Exuding confidence creates confidence.

Down the escalator line, a sign promoting the ballet, The Great Gatsby.

Ballet?

Next leg begins.

——

I just met the president of the nation’s Mountain Running Association!!

In a very grey and messy complex of industrial and small business buildings, I found the sports club, where hosting organization has its office. Dirty air, cluttered streets, vans and campers parked as if people were living in them.

Not unusual, regardless of the country. It is a city, after all.

(it’s snowing)

Realized that yes, my Russian is improving, if only just a little, because I managed to get my bib AND chat for a few moments.

When I said I was American, one person’s question was, “Texas?”
No, not Texas. No need to worry about ebola.

I am number 1135

—-

oops, missed my stop.

—-

a few track changes, one wrong car, and now I am back on track.

Looking forward to reading my book.


A man is seated. Putting his hand alongside his cheek to scratch it, he instantly falls asleep. Hand is still there, fingers twitching, body deeply breathing. My, he must be tired.

Four more stops to go.

—-

Okay! Sitting in a warm cafe near my bus stop. I think I deserve a hot cup of something after all that. One more bus ride and then I’ll be home. 5 1/2 hour trip, but I got my number. : )

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