Try as I might, I could not catch a glimpse of Ekaterina at the closing ceremonies, and now I find myself realizing that keeping in touch with her might not be that easy after all. Or, rather, establishing contact in the first place. I'll be dashed if I can pick up this infernal language of hers; I find the difficulty doubled when a foreign tongue uses an entirely different alphabet. I took a course in Japanese back in college, which proved a particularly thorough flop of a gander of a fiasco.
While looking on-line for a decent local Ethiopian restaurant that delivers, I came across an advertisement for that queer sort of agency that claims they can dig up the goods on just about anyone, so I may pursue a Russian version of said office. All I really require is a reliable mailing address, as my written words will, I am sure, be just the stuff to provoke a tender response. Téodor snapped a rather composed headshot of me this afternoon, which I will enclose.
Goodbye, Olympics. It's a hand-rolled, a suspicion of armagnac and then bed. Oh, and to pine for Ekaterina, perhaps while I brush my teeth.