The title of this post is from a short story by Nabokov about a Russian girl born in 1900, who moves to Berlin and is reaching 30 with no marriage prospects. In good Russian fashion, all of her struggles amount to a single line obituary about dying in childbirth. I don't know why I've been thinking about this story so much lately, besides the obvious cocktail party anecdotal value. But anyway, like Val, I am stuck on a Lomo kick. Tragic or hopeful, here is the Russian beauty I see...
Stalin style Moscow State University
Moscow city bus, taken from inside a hummer limo
Police car guarding Victory Park
What would a photo collection of Moscow be without St Basil's?
City lights blur