At many Moscow restaurants there is apparently a guy (always young, hip, sprightly) whose job involves delivering lit hookas to the tables where they've been ordered. The funny thing is that to keep the hookas burning, he must puff incessantly on each one as he rushes out of the kitchen into the dining room. In short, he smokes your hooka first. When we eat out, I really enjoy seeing the same man intermittently rushing past carrying the snaky, curvaceous contraption, sucking furiously on its long hose and blowing great clouds of fruity smoke as he runs. To round out the day with another Dr. Seuss reference: it reminds me of Sam-I-Am barreling around the same corner over and over, holding up the bouncing platter of eggs and ham.
And I have to add one more snapshot to my no-good-very-bad-day account... the trip home: EB alone, trudging wearily up the subway steps, mittens flip-flopping beneath her coat cuffs, no handrail to hold; me, behind her, carrying Lula in the sling, the baby bag slipping off of my shoulder, and lugging the stroller up the stairwell with one hand, as a young man stood smoking on the top step, watching us all the way, unperturbed, holding a sign advertising diplomas for sale. Argh!
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