Brutally cold here. A woman in ratty fur and plastic jewels brought water in an old pickle jar to the dogs in the metro station, and made them sip from the lid. One she scolded for being "not nice." Then a security guard (they never wear any logo or any identification so one never knows whom they work for, public or private, legitimate or not, only that they always wear head-to-toe black and don't respond well to argument) scolded her.
At the bazaar we bought valenki for EB, and slippers for her to wear in her classroom. The market's dim stand-up cafe, where we stopped to warm up over some tea and fried cheese, was tucked into a kind of trailer, the door small and hidden, its few tiny windows dripping steam, and traders inside killing time playing on their cell phones. The cook/waitress/janitor collected all the scraps left on the tables and removed them to a big cardboard box set on a sink just inside the entryway.
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