“Yes, it’s spring alright,” said the babushka selling flowers by the metro entrance today, casting a sly eye in my direction. Lady, I couldn’t agree more. And if I had any cash left in my pocket, I would have bought all your flowers off of you, and brought them home, stuck them in a vase, and ran my fingers over the petals as I watched the sun go down over the Moscow River. But since I’ve done all of that in my head, it must count for something. Surely.