Trekhprudny Lane

In search of something very specific and minor (which I did not find), I went to Izmailovsky market, the city's largest craft and souvenir bazaar. I spent very little time in the cheerless souvenir stalls, which felt sort of embalmed (like Lenin?), before being swallowed -- literally swallowed -- by the enormous, bustling jarmarka nearby. The narrow passageways through this hodgepodge of giant, multi-floor warehouses went on forever, crammed two stories high with Chinese goods: mittens, dolls, little aquaria with fake fish, panties s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d painfully on those big metal rings, pajamas and loofahs and frilly window sheers, oilcloth by the yard, baskets and bustiers and fleece blankets, pleather jackets, DVDs, ball gowns worthy of a quinceanera, enamelware kitchen sets and woolly shoe soles. The passages were filled with people, buying, selling, bantering, hawking, and hauling crates in from trucks or out to the minibuses waiting to carry home shoppers from the provinces, each suspiciously guarding a years' worth of purchases strapped to a dolly with a bungee cord. Porters from the 'stans rushed constantly through the narrow walkways, straining to push carts overloaded with boxes or those overstuffed, plaid plastic tote bags, shouting for everyone to get out of the way. (What percentage of the world's goods travels in one of those plaid bags at some point between manufacturer and consumer? It must be close to fifty.) It's a dangerous place, and I don't mean the pickpockets. One needs six pairs of eyes to take in the dizzying number of goods, maneuver through the crowd, and locate a safe place to stop and examine anything more closely without being slammed by the carts, all at once. Dingier corners housed rough kitchens where traders from across Asia found a taste of home: some crouched with chopsticks over heavenly-smelling bowls of steaming stuff; the air was smoky in places with open fires; women trundled carts around that resembled hospital bassinets, the plastic tops filled with fake-looking pastries, calling "chai! kafe!" (collisions with the brazen young porters were inevitable); one wiry cook with a grille of golden teeth used a long-armed wooden paddle to scoop piping hot, meat-filled pies from a brick oven built into the ground. At the food stalls big fish were kept barely alive, those at the top flicking their tails listlessly, all packed tight into the kind of sterilite containers one would buy at home to store Christmas ornaments or winter sweaters. And I have never smelled such a quantity of ripe raw meat in one place --the air in one particular, low corridor tasted absolutely metallic. Tucked under the low battered stools the vendors favor were large round silver trays with emptied tea glasses... it was a world unto itself, one of the most extraordinary places I have ever seen. Like a dream.