Trekhprudny Lane

We've roamed the city this weekend, from Sotheby's to the deep belly of the Izmailovsky bazaa. At the bazaar, the camera was almost confiscated by a young tough in a black OXPAHA jacket; maybe photographs are not allowed in the market and maybe they are, or maybe it's both, but we learned it's better not to shoot while a black Mercedes is coming slowly through the packed passageways, forcing everyone to press tight against the walls and A. to lift the stroller almost overhead. When the car came through, the old woman laughing in the shawl below, who had offered her chair to EB just a moment earlier, spryly tucked the lemons and garlic she was selling and the overturned cardboard box she used as a table beneath the counter of a nearby kebab seller, then whipped them out again as soon as the rear bumper had edged past.