Snow: I dunno. A couple inches?
The Zeppelin reference doesn't really mean anything other than I've been humming the song, including the guitar riffs, all day (Yeah, it truly dates me, but it's so much more my speed than Can You Feel the Love Tonight, no disrespect meant to Elton John). I got so many lovely emails in response to yesterday's entry, that I started out thinking, in an Early-SNL-Bill-Murray-Lounge-Lizard delivery, "There's a lotta love in the room." That devolved to "Whole. Lotta. Love." Cue Zeppelin II.
This is the heated entrance to Trubnaya Metro. See how it is clear of snow, even though it's snowing like crazy and the walkways are all covered in it? I also wondered if the soldier types were going to chastise me for taking photos of a Metro stop. But they didn't pay any attention.
This is Trubnaya Plaza (Place? It just says Pl on my map.). The area behind the yellow barricades is normally parking. The big, steaming machines melt the snow. Note the mountain of snow in the background (in front of the yellow building).
Down the block from the French school. The red and white tape and the red barricade mean that things might fall on you. A story in The Moscow Times this week reported that
The removal of icicles longer than 10 centimeters from buildings is required by law and enforced by the city. Every day, local authorities check no fewer than 1,500 buildings, and fines await those who do not take the appropriate measures to deal with the buildup of ice and snow.
Creative Parking 101. Note the double-parked cars on the left. That's right: the left. The dirty white car is parked. There's no one in it.
More Fun With Parking. These cars are abandoned on the sidewalk.
Typically dirty car. It can't be helped.
Double parking in front of the school (the red, brick building). Often peoples' drivers sit in their cars here and wait to pick up the kids.
And the view of the front door from the elevator.
Lest you think I am in a totally Moscow Bashing Place, let me close with a story.
I was in the Sedmoy (our grocery store) this morning, at the deli/meat counter. The woman serving me was a Tough Russian Broad. Think about those old Wendy's ads: "Svimvear! Evening Vear!" I point at the stuffed peppers (they're good!) and say, in Russian, "This, please."
"NYET!" she barks at me. "We don't have any!"
"But they're . . . right . . . there . . ." I say in a pathetic tone, pointing.
"NYET!" she insists. "Stara!"
The light bulb goes off. Ahhh! They're old! She's not going to screw over the foreign broad. She knows me by now.
I lean over the counter and whisper in Russian, "Thanks!"
She does not smile.