The biting Moscow wind whips through Red Square today, carrying with it the scent of snow and a faint, almost phantom, aroma of baking bread. The queue outside the bakery stretches longer than the Bolshoi’s intermission, each soul bundled in layers of wool and stoicism. One can’t help but observe the human spirit, even amidst such hardship.
The rationing, alas, has become quite the ordeal. This morning, whilst waiting for my turn, I witnessed a poor fellow succumb to the chill. Concern gnaws at me, seeing the weariness etched on the faces around me. It’s a grim spectacle, certainly, but there’s a shared fortitude here, a quiet determination that’s rather… remarkable. I must have misplaced my coin near the entrance to the bakery, hope someone puts it to good use.
Despite the hardships, one clings to the hope that things will improve. After all, a fellow can’t let the grey skies entirely eclipse the blue, can he? Moscow, in its own stoic way, continues to fascinate and challenge. A grand adventure, this, even amidst the breadlines.
Categories: Travel, History, 1932
Tags: Moscow, USSR, Breadlines, Winter, Rationing
