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Notes from last Sunday, at the Деликат...
Jun. 20th, 2013 12:35 pmThere have been many changes around here, and yet some things haven't changed at all. The post office closes at 3 pm on Sundays, and I missed the deadline by 15 minutes.
The new stuff is shiny. There's a bowling alley in town! The old stuff looks a little worn. The locomotive on display near the train station could use a new coat of paint.
It would appear to be cherry season. I've passed a number of people headed home with plastic bags full of cherries. Besides mountains of cherries, there's a lot of produce at the market, and I took special note of how everyone appears to be hawking not just ordinary garlic, but "Tashkent garlic."
Opening the rucksack I left behind three years ago made me feel a little like the character in Paycheck, as I tried to figure out why I had left some items. One thing I forgot to leave was a phone cable and a doodad that lets you plug two modular phone jacks into one receptacle. Solving that problem cost me about $4 in parts.
The beer is cold, but not ice cold. But it's drinkable. The restaurant—the Деликат, whose name likely has the same roots as the word "delicatessen"—is playing a kind of Muzak that has me feeling the edge of the knife of my place setting and looking at my wrists in a completely new light. No matter...
I look out the entrance to this little oasis and across the street, I can see a children's play area set between apartment blocks. The boundary of the play area is delineated with painted tires, positioned vertically and half-buried in the ground. Two boys, one with an orange water pistol and the other with a green spray bottle, are engaged in a water fight.
How familiar are their movements! I'm brought back to my childhood, when I played in the same way, and the movement of the smaller boy, the pursued, as he flees, looking ahead while pointing his water pistol directly behind him, squeezing the trigger for all he's worth, is most familiar to me, down to the point of surrender upon emptying my reservoir of water.
Cheers...
The new stuff is shiny. There's a bowling alley in town! The old stuff looks a little worn. The locomotive on display near the train station could use a new coat of paint.
It would appear to be cherry season. I've passed a number of people headed home with plastic bags full of cherries. Besides mountains of cherries, there's a lot of produce at the market, and I took special note of how everyone appears to be hawking not just ordinary garlic, but "Tashkent garlic."
Opening the rucksack I left behind three years ago made me feel a little like the character in Paycheck, as I tried to figure out why I had left some items. One thing I forgot to leave was a phone cable and a doodad that lets you plug two modular phone jacks into one receptacle. Solving that problem cost me about $4 in parts.
The beer is cold, but not ice cold. But it's drinkable. The restaurant—the Деликат, whose name likely has the same roots as the word "delicatessen"—is playing a kind of Muzak that has me feeling the edge of the knife of my place setting and looking at my wrists in a completely new light. No matter...
I look out the entrance to this little oasis and across the street, I can see a children's play area set between apartment blocks. The boundary of the play area is delineated with painted tires, positioned vertically and half-buried in the ground. Two boys, one with an orange water pistol and the other with a green spray bottle, are engaged in a water fight.
How familiar are their movements! I'm brought back to my childhood, when I played in the same way, and the movement of the smaller boy, the pursued, as he flees, looking ahead while pointing his water pistol directly behind him, squeezing the trigger for all he's worth, is most familiar to me, down to the point of surrender upon emptying my reservoir of water.
Cheers...
