It has been a month since my return to Russia. Actually, I am late. As of Tuesday, I will have been here for five weeks.  I have eight weeks left. Eight weeks. I don’t know how this happened. Really, it has been forever, while it simultaneously has been nothing. I have no words.

Ira and Oleg. They are in love. It is fantastic.

Since my return to the lovely land of the reds, things have been quite busy. There was a road trip to Tkharyets for a wedding. I drove. Delight. Then there was a road trip to Rostov. I rode a marshrutka there and a bus back. Oh, how I did not miss the trek to Rostov and back. Shortly thereafter, there was a dandy jaunt to Moscow. I have now seen Moscow in every season. I must say, spring and summer are the best. Well, actually, I think that summer would win out with a bang if it were not so darn hot. I still love the Moscow metro more than

My face and the rest of me, crooked, in Moscow.

just about anything. A United States visa was secured for one very happy Russian. We took a train home. It was late. Thus, we landed after the last bus to Volgodonsk had left for the evening. This is not the ideal situation. Yeah, we

took a taxi home. Well, the Russian version of a taxi, i.e. some guy that we picked up at the airport who with for the negotiated price delivered to our doorstep with a smile. Five thousands Rubles later, or in your language, 165 USD later were were home. As painful as it was, this covered three hours in the car; it is a hike, and frankly, it is a far nicer trip in backseat of a car than scrunched into a marshrutka.

What else goes on? There used to be a parking lot outside my window; a lovely brick-type building is going up. The hot water was here, then it was gone. Twice. In general, things they are a changing, while they continue to roll along in the same manner as usual. There has been all sorts of work and all sorts of play.

It is hot in Volgodonsk. I could never have imagined that a place that is so God awful cold in the winter can be so beastly hot in the spring/summer. Despite this inability to imagine it, I am now living it. I am not exactly sure of the temperatures, but shorts and tank tops are already necessary when bumming around the apartment. The sun is scorching, the air is dry, and my allergies are killing me. The weather here already feels of summer in Ohio. When I sat down here, the sun was ablaze, I was adorned in my wife-beater, attempting to quench a thirst that has been raging for days. In the snap of a finger, the winds started to blow and within five minutes, it was torrentially down-pouring. This is how we live. The weather has been like this for going on a week now.

Despite the temperamental weather, our spirits are up. Winter was rough, we will take the heat. In fact, we will take it with a smile, and with it, we will cook-out. There is no translation for what it is that we do exactly. It is sort of a mix between grilling, barbecuing, and well, plain old cooking out. It is also none of those things. It is shashlik. You might think of shashlik as kebab; it is not kebab. Shashlik is a favorite tasty pastime of all Russians. It is marinaded meat, typically and most ideally (in my opinion) pork, that is cooked on a skewer (similar to kebab), over an open fire. Imagine a campfire that has died down, the embers are raging but there is no flame. This is the perfect environment for shashlik — smoked, marinated, Russian meats. Fantastic. We take every chance we get to prepare shashlik. It takes hours; it is a real commitment; it takes planning; it is amazing.

I cannot tell you how it makes my heart happy to squat over smoldering embers for three hours, turning little mettle skewers, dousing out any flames that arise, until my meats have turned a lovely, crisp brown. It is just as good as digging in the dirt.

And so goes life. I bought plane tickets the other day. I will be landing in Cleveland with a Russian in tow on Saturday 10 July at 18.54. I traded in my favorite kelly green Chuck Taylors for a fancy new white pair; thank you, Moscow. My feet are happy. Rufus Wainwright plays on the iPod streaming through the lovely speakers that my terrific grandma purchased for me. The rain is still pouring; the thunder booming; the lightning striking. Things here in Volgodonsk are as lovely as ever.

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