Observers On Ice

So, without going into any detail about the nature of my work here, suffice to say that my technical title is "Observer," and we'll leave it at that.

Backtrack to a few weeks ago when, in preparation for my trip to the post-Soviet tundra, I did a little cold-weather shopping (hat, scarf, earmuffs, super-duper-warm gloves and a 600-fill down coat (the latter two as presents from Mom and Dad for an early Christmas), and a pair of wellies).  Naturally, I thought the wellies would be stylish and useful in navigating the snowy landscape -- form AND function?  How often does that happen?

You be the judge:

Unfortunately, I failed to account for several externalities: namely, temperatures well below freezing; and ice.

And yes, these are basically nothing but rubber -- no lining, no insulation, nothing.  Hey, nobody ever accused me of being smart.  (I would like to note that I am now DESPERATELY seeking a pair of Columbia "Snow Hotties," which have a heating element in them for the prevention of painfully frozen toes.  The only ones I can find online are size 8.5 and up; I wear a size 6, MAX 6.5 for boots.  Can anyone help??  PLEEEEASE?)

Anyway, taking off these boots today, I swore I literally heard -- but only barely felt -- the little toe of my right foot SNAP OFF.  Upon closer inspection, it is still happily attached, but I fully expected it to fall out of my sock a moment later.  And that was just the result of spending maybe, maybe 10 minutes outdoors.

Also, these boots lack something very specific, that could come in useful here: blades.

Not three days after our arrival in Luhansk (also often spelled Lugansk), it snowed.  The temperature rose just long enough for some of that light snow to melt, and then dipped back down below freezing, leaving behind a generous layer of ice.  On everything.  To include the flat, brick-paved (and I'm talkin' the smoothest bricks on earth) sidewalks.  So there I was... last Friday afternoon, having requested to be dropped off at the mall (I am supporting the local economy, and also I needed a shirt) and having sent the driver home, I wound up walking home, which I expected would be no big deal; it's a pretty straight shot back to the apartment.  Nevertheless, I managed to give those boots a workout.

Note to self: Nothing without blades will get you safely across ice.  And even then, you're probably screwed.

So, at about the half-way point between the mall and the house, I apparently subconsciously decided it was high time I whip out my auditioning routine for the Ukrainian Olympic Ice Dancing Team.

Sadly, despite my graceful yet challenging technical routine (9.9's all around, thankyouverymuch), which primarily involved the "Look, Ma!  No Hands!" maneuver of jutting my right foot in front of the rest of my body and altering my center of gravity in such a way that I plummeted to earth on my right hip (kinda like this but to my right and without the moral support of onlookers), I failed to make it past the qualifying round. (I did, however, unleash a supremely colorful selection of foul language in English... or is it French?... to the one guy who was close enough to help me up, but instead kept walking past.  I'm keeping up foreign relations, Goose-style.)

Bummer; I totally had my heart set on Vancouver.

I guess, since I am clearly past my prime for competition, this means I can turn pro now and tour with Smuckers.

That's what Brian Boitano'd do.