Landing in Moscow: What Time Is It, and Who Can I Blame?

I could only find a place to stay for about half the nights, but I figured the chance to see Roman Abramovich break down in tears was worth a few naps on a park bench. Happy/sad face suddenly wrinkling up like a coin purse.

We landed in the middle of the night in one of those hard-grunge airport fogs—you know, steamy brown blotches on the air, little bits of grass fringe and concrete lit up inexplicably brightly compared to everything else. By the time I’d gone through all the lines, bought some roubles, and ducked into an enormous and weirdly deserted bathroom that seemed to be made out of marble, it was light outside. Actually looked like four in the afternoon.

Do you want a Russian nesting doll? You can buy those at this airport.

First impressions of Moscow from the bus window: the light here is kind of like on a diet. Everyone out walking is in an insane, but at the same time utterly normal, hurry. A lot of windows and asphalt slabs, but every so often you see a building that looks like a mushroom trying to pass as a birthday cake.

Not a lot of Champions League sightings so far…I’ve definitely gone past a few rough-looking street situations, but they were all between like blond men in motorcycle jackets who didn’t seem like lager and a vacation were playing a crucial role in their hostilities. It felt local. I’ll keep looking.

More soon, or whenever I find some coffee and a thread back to human existence.