When I hear Russian spoken on the street my ears twitch. I try to start a casual conversation, just to see what kind of Russia-speakers are breathing the same air as me.
Sometimes I choke with sympathy (I still remember a fiery granny from Mariupol and her widowed daughter).
More often I choke with rage.
It is hard to find words to deal with the blithe arrogance and ignorance of a holidaying Putinist, enjoying shopping, nightclubs, and of course complaining.
Others profess liberal sentiments, but spiced with self-pity, self-righteousness and denunciation of Western decadence and hypocrisy.
