The food comes. Russian pancakes turn out to be perfectly done French crepes. I see a couple of old people with the same mysterious beak-bandage walk in front of me. It must be a geriatric Russian thing. Sitting here, with a slow buzz softening the edges, I could be at a resort on the Baltic Sea.
Manhattan is absent.
The cafes cater to a distinctly Russian crowd. Non-Russians seem to pass along in front of them, in an alternate world. They walk, they look, they skate, or bike or skateboard by. Across the boardwalk, Russia begins again. A crowd of old Russians huddle under a large metal gazebo talking, playing chess, sitting at tables and picnicking.