'Dobrideen' he said. It meant 'hello' in

'Dobrideen' he said. It meant 'hello' in Russian but I didn't speak any Russian. 'Hello?' I said, 'what did you say?' But you answered me' he said. 'You said 'hello' right back. 'w

-ell in Soviet Russia you can't insult someone by saying 'your mother wears combat boots' because the person's mother probably does." His beard was thick and wet.

It quickly froze over, as the Russian winter was as cold as it was Soviet. I punched his beard and it shattered. "Heh, now your chin has no protection," I said. His mother's boots

, black thigh-high polyurethane stilletos, were ill-fitting & also no match for the biting Russian winds. Plus, he couldn't walk in them on ice. Then I pushed him down & his chin

fused to the metal buckle on his left stiletto thigh boot. I helped him stagger along bent over. I nodded saying "Dobry den!" to passers by. The Siberian winds made Petrograd a

feast for the eyes. Hills were covered in green grass which gave way with the wind. In the valley were gardens with trees that bore fruit. By a swimming pool we met Petrograd's

private dancer. She was a dancer for money insisting that love had nothing to do with it. She picked a large ripe apple from one of the trees near the pool and tossed it to

a passing dog. Unfortunately she missed, and ended up with a large puddle of apple mush. Deciding that she was ready to take her private dancing career to the next level, she got a

pole and flailed it around in the apple mush while stomping her feet to an invisible rhythm. The mush flew into the air like fireworks, creating a backdrop for her dancing skills.