On that final morning at Pyatigorsk my alarm rang at 7am. I’d decided on one last reckless bid for the “silver-capped Caucasus” of Pushkin. The hotel lift took me to the 17th floor, then I strode down the corridor toward the south-facing balcony door, imagining myself a blearyeyed Lermontov with cameras, tripod and lenses clanking under my arm.
KeywordsBurning Microwave Steam Flare Bark
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