Back home, I keep having flashbacks to when Marta was a newborn - pretty amazing... I can't believe it ever happened.
I can't believe we've ever lived in Pushcha Vodytsya, either...
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Today, I decided to walk up the stairs from Franka Sq. to the presidential administration, with Marta in the stroller - and, after the first set of stairs, a cop came up to me and helped me carry the stroller all the way to the top. Extremely nice, even though I could easily do it myself - have had a lot of practice in Pushcha.
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In the park today, the color of the benches shocked me: gray. Not yellow, not blue - just gray.
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Marta is still scared of my father, but I can feel she's slowly getting used to him. Too slowly - she doesn't have much time before we move back to Moscow.
My father has raised hundreds of kids in his 50 years or so as a tennis coach - and now his own granddaughter starts sobbing whenever he comes close. How sad. He doesn't look or sound his best, though, and, most likely, never will. Even sadder.
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