I finally hung out with the crazy Russian photographers I mentioned earlier.



The conversation went thusly:

"Hey so are you coming tomorrow?"

"Yeah maybe. When do we need to meet?"

"I can meet you at your Metro stop at 6:30."

"...That is really early."

"Yeah! We don't want to miss the sunrise!"

I am thinking over my sleep deprivation in my head and sighing. "...Spoken like a true photographer."




Russia seems to just have an excess of former residences of former royalty, in various states of decay. Also, note the snowman on the wall.






"Anton, can I take your picture?"

"Of course. Why even ask? It's your right, as a photographer. You shouldn't ask."

...Well, shit. Glad we're on the same page then.












If I'm remembering properly, when we first got to this place there was a father with a little daughter, who was sledding down this hill.




This was another constantly-cold situation, despite the layers and layers of wool I had on. We ended up making a fire that was grumpy and smokey but left my clothes smelling good and firey.










The palace we went and crawled around was outside of the city. In the mini-bus on the way back we had ourselves a tea party. It was alright though; the (loud) group of girls in the seats in front of us were drinking champagne to celebrate their graduations.