The traffic jams are even worse than in Moscow. The icicles (or sosuli, in the terminology of the city’s female mayor) hanging from the roofs are so enormous that they clearly ought to be knocked down with a laser, a photon cannon, or a chocolate microscope. Walking on the sidewalks is genuinely dangerous. These verses by an unknown but brilliant poet (linked by Parker) perfectly capture the feeling of the trip. They slice down icicles with lasers, Snowflakes stab me in the face. Will I make it to the bus stop, Without my boots sinking in the snow? And at home a plate awaits me, A plate of buckwheat with a white roll; At my feet, a rubber hot-water bottle, And soft slippers under the chair. In the iron bowl, two herrings, With a spoon and fork sticking out. There’s a shot glass and a bottle of water— That is how my dinner ended. I’ll put some tea leaves in my mug, Open Shevchenko’s “Kobzar” — A poet on the level of Petrarch And Valentina Matvienko. I should go in May; it must be very beautiful then.