23 May 2007. Warm already, just stepping outside the door. Light layer of clouds clustered to the south. Tiny figures of workmen lined up along one edge of the Bank of America roof, dark against the sky. Long ladder braced against the wall. One white t-shirt. Last night: St. Petersburg--looking for the Moika, the Fontanka, the Griboyedov Canal...not to be found. It's all stories of grupovniki and transit fuel rackets, godfathers in old hotel ballrooms--Vladimir Sergeyevich--and a waitress who blushes when asked to describe the flavors of the ice cream... The exotic returns to the everyday. A thousand Russian school girls still in love with Sergei Yesenin--that same hotel. He wrote his last poems there, in blood, very near the end. No place in a world of crankshafts and bullet-proof vests. Or was that it? Maybe just the song... A life lived to the fullest, ongoing, forever...
"And I hope that someday she come to love me too..."
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