I was eavesdropping on an old Russian couple in our brand-new fancy-food market two blocks from the house (yay!) (and oh, did I mention that I speak Russian). Their conversation was predictable, about the costs and quality of various things (high and high, respectively). Russians are fascinated with shiny markets. I spent time in the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, and nearly everyone who knew an emigre (I knew a lot of Jewish people who were newly allowed to leave) had some version of the same photo: a small child in a grocery cart in the produce section of an American supermarket.
So, anyway, I turn to look at the couple and find them as expected: in their 60s, probably, somewhat doughy, dressed oddly (colorful knits and a terrible dye job for her, a cheap grey suit jacket for him), but… wait, what’s that? She’s got an “I voted” sticker on her bag!
I choked up immediately and had to head over to the rutabagas to recover. What a country! Time to get working again.