Fermented Mare's Milk

So mostly I've been sitting in the apartment in front of the computer reloading the craigslist Providence rentals page and frantically emailing landlords to ask them things like "Can a 90 lb golden retriever who functions more as furniture be considered a 'small pet'?" We're leaving in four days and I want a place to land that is mine. Not that my sister doesn't have a wonderfully comfortable futon. It's just, you know, when going home doesn't actually involve a home, it loses a bit of the sexiness.

Beyond that, I also got drunk with a bunch of guys from the US Embassy beside a keg of Steinbrau's finest lager and an impromptu bon fire in a brand new Weber grill sent from the States. It was fantastic, and not merely for the gossip we learned about members of the current administration (for instance, in Dick Cheney's travel rider: upon his arrival anywhere in the world, El VP's hotel room must be at exactly 68 degrees and the television must be tuned to Fox News). That was followed by my lying around the apartment moaning with hangover and the repeated whimper of "Christ, when did I get so old?" There's also been packing. Almost all of the packing is done, actually, with the obvious exception of the few bits of clothes we're still wearing and not just burning when we leave.

Oh, and there's this, too. It's a picture of Zamira, the so-called Bread Lady you may remember from my early love-letters to lepyoshka. She makes the bazaar less bizarre, if you know what I mean. And her voice--squeakier than Bernadette Peters after a tank of helium--ranks high among the things we will miss. If you ever find yourself in Bishkek, swing by the west end of the bazaar on Jibek Jaloo and say hello...