The Last Ride on the Metro
It was my final night in Moscow. The World Cup so far had been nothing short of amazing. I had met people from all over the world, but what affected me most was the warmth and kindness of the Russian people. From English-fluent hotel employees, to not-so-English-fluent cabbies, I was astounded. Everything I had been taught throughout my life was that Russians were alien, cold and quick to take advantage of foreigners. I couldn’t have been proven more wrong. On this one last night, after strolling through Saint Nicholas Street with my wife, Marielena, (and eating the most amazing hamburger ever) we decided to go back to our hotel, situated in a Soviet-era apartment apartment block fairly close to the Domodedovo Airport. And that’s where it all began. We boarded the Green line (#2) southbound. It was packed. Like sardines. I stood up in the back after I managed to secure a seat for my wife. Looking around, it seemed Marilena and I were the only non-Russians on the car. Now, let me