I miss having a proper home on Christmas. Although then again, I’m lucky to have what I have. It’s not that the mantra, “Some people have it way worse” works. It doesn’t. It’s just that life is unpredictable enough as it is – and in Russia, the membrane of delusion that’s supposed to separate you from the grinding mechanisms of history is transparent-to-nonexistent. So there’s that.
The painful cold spell in Moscow has broken for now, and it’s snowing. I bought wine from Krasnodar and honey from Altai. Lev is enjoying the Pogues and Kristy MacColl. Alyosha is enjoying the fact that his computer freaked out and started working the second the repair man stepped through the door. “So happy Christmas. I love you baby. I can see a better time. When all our dreams come true.”