She walked in as if she wasn’t just late for a date, but late for a crucial, life-altering flight. In Moscow, even romance starts at a dizzying pace.
You know the main, and perhaps most exasperating, talent of this city? It’s the sheer, unforgiving tempo. It’s not just the traffic; it’s the very metabolism of Moscow.
Dating in Moscow is not a waltz—it’s a sparring match. I come to start a story, and I get a demand for an oyster voucher. A new post on how to distinguish honesty from cynicism and why paying the bill is your biggest lesson.
A space is just an extension of your character. Real Moscow isn’t a guidebook; it’s an instinct. I don’t just go to bars, coffee shops, parks, or clubs. I choose places where I’m comfortable being myself, where I know who’s spinning the tracks, who’s pouring the drinks, and where I can just be silent without having to explain why. I choose my own positions on this map.