Petrovich

This is Petrovich.


I don't know who Petrovich is. But he seems to be the namesake of a fun joint tucked into an indecipherable warren of streets somewhere in Moscow. Which means I don't know where Petrovich is. As far as I can tell, zoning laws appear to be nonexistent. You can be staring at what is plainly a residential apartment block but go into the basement to find an expansive restaurant with music and dancing.


Marius' friend, Anna, was tonight's Fixer.


That's one of the lovely qualities of most Russian women; they just jump right in and take charge. She orchestrated two cabs and a car, all converging on an ambiguous address. And naturally, this is a generalization. I can personally name something like forty U.S. women all rather proactive, shall we say.

Along for the ride were three of Anna's friends, two with a decent English fluency. There was Christina, a Yulia, and name I can not remember much less pronounce.


For me what's most arresting is that the people here seem to be dancing in celebration, not mere 'oh, it's Saturday night, I guess we're supposed to go out.' Maybe it is the new stability. But there's such joy here.


Music ranging from Russian folk songs to American disco hits to Soviet-era rock and roll, all of it is greeted with such passion and ebullience.


It's hard not to love this place.