no way to know and no way to change the past, no matter how badly she wanted to. Nor did she have any right to grieve. Her pain was nothing compared to the trouble she’d brought her family. The only thing to do was suck it up and deal.
As the weeks passed, she found a routine. She took the subway to practice, having swapped her bulky rolling skate bag for a shoulder hockey bag, similar to Anton’s. At night, she read and cooked. On weekends, she explored the city.
She visited the Kremlin, taking pictures of the towers and a bell so big she could have crawled inside it. She shopped at GUM, a high-end shopping mall on Red Square, which was carved out of a Soviet-era department store. She paid too much for a beautiful leather-and-shearling winter coat at the UGG Australia store, but passed on the shapka, the furry hats that were everywhere, even in September. She tried on a white one that made her look like a Q-tip. The Princess Leia earmuffs were passable, but God forbid it ever got cold enough to need them.
She went to art galleries, museums and street markets. And everywhere she went, there were churches.
They fascinated her, from the grand cathedrals to tiny neighborhood chapels. She photographed ornate bell towers, stacked rows of gilded arches, towering, tent-shaped roofs and onion domes, gilded in gold or splashed with bright colors. Her guidebook said the sloped roofs and domes were to prevent the buildup of snow. Whatever the reason, they were beautiful, compelling and mysterious. Though not once did she venture inside.
By early October, the trees were dappled red, yellow and gold. The mornings were crisp, but the afternoons still warm. One day after the gym, she stopped at the Coffee Bean near the Metro. On a concrete bench outside, she sipped a skim latte and opened her guidebook.
Izmaylovsky Park was best known for its big weekend tourist market. She had little interest in wooden nesting dolls or fake fur hats, but the park also held the ruins of a tsar’s hunting estate. The forest had trails, ponds and wildlife. It seemed like months since she’d seen any wildlife besides pigeons, and there was a short, mile-long trail she could complete before dark. She took the purple line north.
At the park entrance, a wooden sign carved in the shape of a hand, pointed to the trail. But the place was deserted, and the silence was creepy. Maybe a solo walk in the woods wasn’t the best idea. Then from behind, a van pulled into the parking lot. A troop of little girls in blue T-shirts scrambled out, followed by a female park steward in a khaki uniform and two middle-aged women.
Carrie made eye contact with one, silently seeking an invitation to follow them through the woods. Apparently deciding she looked harmless, the woman shrugged and nodded.
She walked behind the group, but still close enough to hear the girls’ laughter and see their names stenciled on the backs of their shirts. The clean, fresh air and gentle whisper of breeze rustling through towering larch and birch trees touched a part of her that had been sorely neglected since coming to Moscow. Above, the autumn sun shone down from a brilliant blue sky. Part of the trail was buried under bright yellow leaves, and as the girls shuffled noisily through them, so did Carrie.
At the trail’s end, the girls and their guide boarded a waiting van. Carrie turned back to the trail, now deep in shadow. It would be dark before she could make it back to the other side. But across the street, she spotted the familiar Metro symbol, an arrow and a Russian word, НОВОГИРЕЕВО. According to her GPS, the station was less than a mile.
Good thing, because this neighborhood wasn’t nearly as nice as the one north of the park. She passed blocks of drab, concrete apartments surrounded by weed-choked lots. Instead of the earthy fragrance of the woods, there was the stench of stale cooking grease from a restaurant with smudged windows. The cracked sidewalk ended at an
As the weeks passed, she found a routine. She took the subway to practice, having swapped her bulky rolling skate bag for a shoulder hockey bag, similar to Anton’s. At night, she read and cooked. On weekends, she explored the city.
She visited the Kremlin, taking pictures of the towers and a bell so big she could have crawled inside it. She shopped at GUM, a high-end shopping mall on Red Square, which was carved out of a Soviet-era department store. She paid too much for a beautiful leather-and-shearling winter coat at the UGG Australia store, but passed on the shapka, the furry hats that were everywhere, even in September. She tried on a white one that made her look like a Q-tip. The Princess Leia earmuffs were passable, but God forbid it ever got cold enough to need them.
She went to art galleries, museums and street markets. And everywhere she went, there were churches.
They fascinated her, from the grand cathedrals to tiny neighborhood chapels. She photographed ornate bell towers, stacked rows of gilded arches, towering, tent-shaped roofs and onion domes, gilded in gold or splashed with bright colors. Her guidebook said the sloped roofs and domes were to prevent the buildup of snow. Whatever the reason, they were beautiful, compelling and mysterious. Though not once did she venture inside.
By early October, the trees were dappled red, yellow and gold. The mornings were crisp, but the afternoons still warm. One day after the gym, she stopped at the Coffee Bean near the Metro. On a concrete bench outside, she sipped a skim latte and opened her guidebook.
Izmaylovsky Park was best known for its big weekend tourist market. She had little interest in wooden nesting dolls or fake fur hats, but the park also held the ruins of a tsar’s hunting estate. The forest had trails, ponds and wildlife. It seemed like months since she’d seen any wildlife besides pigeons, and there was a short, mile-long trail she could complete before dark. She took the purple line north.
At the park entrance, a wooden sign carved in the shape of a hand, pointed to the trail. But the place was deserted, and the silence was creepy. Maybe a solo walk in the woods wasn’t the best idea. Then from behind, a van pulled into the parking lot. A troop of little girls in blue T-shirts scrambled out, followed by a female park steward in a khaki uniform and two middle-aged women.
Carrie made eye contact with one, silently seeking an invitation to follow them through the woods. Apparently deciding she looked harmless, the woman shrugged and nodded.
She walked behind the group, but still close enough to hear the girls’ laughter and see their names stenciled on the backs of their shirts. The clean, fresh air and gentle whisper of breeze rustling through towering larch and birch trees touched a part of her that had been sorely neglected since coming to Moscow. Above, the autumn sun shone down from a brilliant blue sky. Part of the trail was buried under bright yellow leaves, and as the girls shuffled noisily through them, so did Carrie.
At the trail’s end, the girls and their guide boarded a waiting van. Carrie turned back to the trail, now deep in shadow. It would be dark before she could make it back to the other side. But across the street, she spotted the familiar Metro symbol, an arrow and a Russian word, НОВОГИРЕЕВО. According to her GPS, the station was less than a mile.
Good thing, because this neighborhood wasn’t nearly as nice as the one north of the park. She passed blocks of drab, concrete apartments surrounded by weed-choked lots. Instead of the earthy fragrance of the woods, there was the stench of stale cooking grease from a restaurant with smudged windows. The cracked sidewalk ended at an
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