Update the second.

Am having trouble starting. I get distracted a lot in this cafe--there are the artsy types smoking at the table across from me, the urban-professional types smoking in the corner, and then there's the couple sharing a table with me, conversing in broken English and--what else?--smoking like chimneys. Welcome to the world, I suppose.
OK, then, here's a picture:

This was taken in my apartment by Mark, a student who stayed with my family two summers ago. He came for dinner this past Thursday, which was a cause for celebration among Natasha (my host mother, far left), Tanya (her sister, who visits occasionally, my left) and Aleksandra (my babushka, on the right.) The celebration was mostly because he'd stayed with them, partly because he's the son of family friends, and partly--I think--because he's a guy. There was a certain intensity that I had previously only seen in girls who attend women's colleges. "It's a man! A MAN! Get out the good china!" Regardless, it was fun.
Life in Stalinland's as normal as it can ever be. I finally got around to photographing "my" mural, the one I walk past every day:
I'm not sure who that guy is supposed to be, or what the shady people standing around the table to his left are supposed to be doing. Maybe I should ask my babushka.
Unfortunately, I can't take pictures of the metro station, as awesome as it is. Apparently in Russia it's illegal to photograph metro stations, bridges, government buildings, or factories. They don't tell us why, although presumably it's to protect government secrets or some such. Assuming America would actually want to learn Russian government secrets these days.
A few words about the metro, while we're on the subject. I have the utmost respect for the Russian metro. It's cheap (about 30 cents a ride), efficient (it goes everywhere and is ridiculously easy to use) and reliable (without fail, your train will come within two or three minutes of your arriving at the platform.) This doesn't mean it's enjoyable. To compare your average metro car on a weekday morning to a sardine can wouldn't even begin to cut it: not only is the interior of a sardine can much less tightly packed than that of said metro car, it also smells a whole lot better. Not to mention that due to my height, I almost always end up smushed against some guy's armpit or shoulder blade. This happened a few days ago when I was wearing freshly applied lip gloss and the man in front of me was wearing a white suit jacket. I hope his wife went easy on him.
This past weekend, a group of us returned to Petergof for its 300th anniversary celebration. We walked around the shore of the gulf of Finland...

...then came back to the main fountain area for the festivities. There were sparks shooting out of the fountains and dancers in full 17th-century getup, but the most impressive thing was the 40-minute fireworks display, of which I unfortunately have only one good picture.
Doesn't really cut it, does it? At least that's Peter the Great's palace in the foreground. Trust me, though, it was spectacular. It was even worth the ride back on a marshrutka--a form of public transportation that's kind of a cross between a bus and a taxi--that was filled to about three times its normal capacity thanks to the special occasion. Hello, armpits...