Trekhprudny Lane

I'm back in Moscow but not -- thankfully -- fully back, not fully immersed again. I feel like a visitor to the somewhat claustrophobic life I led all this long winter: these stuffy rooms and their too-familiar contents, the grocery store, the freezing playground, the line at the bakery, the sound of the language. We are on the cusp of another long trip, and so these few weeks in Russia feel like a mere stopover. I am safe from the gaping mouth of the rut that swallowed me whole in December and stewed me in its bitter juices throughout January, February, March. I can look out at Moscow with the unfatigued eye of a curious visitor (rather than a prisoner) once again.

Andalusia -- what a shock the warmth and the light and the colors will be. Eleven weeks are, I hope, sufficient time to really unclench. I have open boxes lined up on the floor into which I toss things I want to pack, as I unearth them... the cartons are like treasure chests, they make me happy each time I glance at them, they are overflowing with sandals, lightweight scarves, dozens of novels, tiny baby swimsuits, beach toys. 

The pigeon with PMV1 really turned a corner while I was in the US, shedding a toe but growing new plumage and regaining control of her neck and head. Once it is warm enough to acclimate her to the outdoors with an open window, and once she has bathed enough to weatherize her feathers, she'll be ready to fly away and perhaps set up house with someone short, speckled, and handsome. Already when I leave seed on the sill and visitors come to eat it, she responds with eagerness. 

Two conversations from the metro today:

I'm waiting in line at the kassa to buy a fare card, Lula in the sling, and a man in a tweed driving cap taps my shoulder and tells me to "follow him and ride the train for no money." He swipes his own card for me, smiles at the baby, and disappears into the crowd.

I'm hauling both girls down the platform toward the escalators, and I see a sort of shabby old woman ask person after person for directions; she is brushed off by every one. I smile invitingly, she asks which exit to use to get to a nearby boulevard (on which, incidentally, a French family was murdered the other day). Easy. I tell her either one. It's my station; I know the area. "That's impossible," she replies, and wanders off to ask someone else.