Welcome to Moscow

I think that it takes a true Muscovite to be able to tell the difference between drunk and dead drunk.  The first weekend in Moscow, in the coutyard of my apartment complex MH and I were approached by a screaming babushka, who insisted that the man lying on the ground was not a passed-out drunk, but had fallen out of an upper story window and was in need of assistance.  Therefore, the first cell phone call I made in Moscow was to the Militsia, something I guess I had hoped to avoid.  Handing the phone to the babushka, she screamed that there was a “man, maybe dead, lying on some grass, some GREEN grass, in Moscow!”  Despite receing such precise directions, the dispatcher remained indifferent.

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