Sergei Minayev. New duhless the 21st century. Selfie (№ 210414)

It was an interesting experience. I was among the people who had never met, never heard their conversations, feel their smell, never been to their habitats. It was a world of "Housewives of middle age", which I thought live only in the ranking of the Gallup. The world of migrant workers, the Caucasian drivers of minibuses, mashed fathers of families and other stuffy people.
Yet it was the students nicohitler with forever red eyelids, "krasauchiki" Dagestan haircut Mireille Mathieu (by the way, they are called "Muscovite") and the "Muscovites" - provocatively dressed provincial and habilities of padovka.
Here on the walls of the cars advertised unknown to me brands and the shops, read books, titles and authors which I had never heard of (and occasionally eyes came across mine, which is already there).
Here leafing through the magazines that I thought were closed in the late nineties, discussed the details of yesterday's "Let them talk", resented "obarevich fucking Americans" like the Americans "obureli" right in the entrance.
Here even the young people joked jokes their parents. But no one ever smiled in response. Here nobody smiled.
Someone else's everyday life had forever careworn, unhappy face. The pitch RAO "Nospecial" to match my condition.
In General, this Moscow was unfamiliar town. I didn't know its rules, policies, and habits. I was not familiar with its inhabitants. I felt only the smell. Capital smelled of sweat, ink Newspapers that get their hands dirty, and Cologne Paco Rabanne.