"We summered in Moscow and wintered in St Petersburg. You sat on the cold stone beaches and lathered up with SPF 45, reading Anna Karenina. Soviet-era icebreakers ploughed along the coastline and you waved at Russian sailors who muttered filthy curses at you, and I swatted down mosquitoes the size of small dogs with your copy of War and Peace. SWAK! went the mosquitoes. "Ëb tvoju mat'!" said the sailors.
All of our sugar was made from beets; all of our liquor was made from potatoes. There was a wheat field behind the house; there was a wheat field in front of our house. There were wheat fields EVERYWHERE. "I'd kill for zlo'ebuchy ear of corn right now," I complained.
The problems of the peasants weren't your own. You had real problems. You'd hacked an old lady to bits with an axe, and then complained your new ball gowns wouldn't be ready for the upcoming season. We were one step ahead of Napoleon's armies, and you were worried that your husband had become bored with you. We had a cart loaded with all our belongings, and you wept that there was no room for your dead mother's harpsichord. Moscow burned and you worried about getting new sheet music for the piano.
You had over 3000 names on your Christmas card list, and their names were comprised entirely of consonants"