To Moscow and Back

Let me warm up my pen which I found on the ground on my walk out of isolation today. I chose to make an almond cheesecake-- not too complicated--taking only one hour to bake. The clock in the church says 8:30... not bad. The temperature is eight degrees. I'm all bundled up and have my "proper" clothes on. Up the hill, I go to where I make my turn at the Brown campus. I walk through the enclosed grounds feeling like I'm at the University of Moscow. There is sun but no sound. Although I'm in Moscow, I walk like a Chinese lady with little, baby steps. That's all I can take, I have my coat of many colors wrapped so tightly around me. I make contact with another human being at the corner a few blocks up the street where Amilio sells his newspapers. You know he will be there, and he knows that I will pass him sometime during the morning hours. It's just that way. I tell him I will be back for my Times, and he says, "Thank you." My final destination is the coffee shop. I buy myself a cup of french roast and take a seat at a table in the back where you have to step up to. I sit facing the door for that's why I'm here, to people watch. I listen to the conversations, watch what they eat and what they are wearing. Today I see a man who is always with his kids, two girls about three and five, I think. He has a big, black dog and usually the girls are in a white carriage that he walks them in. But today, he is by himself, reading his Times and looking like he is enjoying his privacy. I, too, am enjoying my private moments. My friends enter and wait in line for their morning refreshment, Unlike mine, their coffee has no smack in it. Their first swallow till their last will feel the same, while I am somewhat high, I must admit. But I will have my one cup, I will not sit there all day having another and another. No, one cup and off I will go to buy my newspaper from Amilio. I return like I told him I would. Now back in my sunny, living room, I open my paper. The phone rings telling me that we have run out of pastry. Re-entering the kitchen, I crack my eggs, find the cream, butter, and sugar; measure flour, salt and baking powder, and mix. One cake is done and another to go. I choose carrot. While the process goes on, I eat carrot sticks. My New York Times is open where I had left it when the phone rang. I do not return to it till the next day. Maybe I never read it. Next Sunday, I'll do the same for it is not in the purchase of the Times, but the people I meet along the way who prove to be the balance. For if I do get to read the thick packet of fancy words and tales of other countries and stray too far from the Mother Land, I have only to take another walk to see if my world is still out there.

Copyright; Ruth Mahoney 7-Feb-88