Oh my heavens. I awoke this morning to find that, after a long night of imbibing at Ray's, I had publicly declared my love for Russian volleyball player Ekaterina Gamova. Well, dash it all, I shan't back down from the stance, for though the inebriation has ebbed, my fondness for the divine creature has not. Say what you will about the great disparities between us, love will find a way. Already I have begun a Russian language primer, and not two hours ago I ordered a set of shoe risers.
I am off to translate a bit of Turgenev, then to pine for Ekaterina, then a hand-rolled in the garden and then bed. Tomorrow I meet Waterbury for lunch and more language instruction; it turns out the old top is fluent in several Slavic tongues. I do like that fellow.