I run every other day, out the door of my apartment building, across the street, and onto the paved path that follows the forested bank of the Moskva River to the bridge that connects Strogino, my "island," to the city center. It's a flat, straight, half-hour round trip. The path is a favorite of parents and kids, especially now that it's sledding season. Toddlers, bundled up until they're spherical, sled down the icy slope to the frozen river. If the temperature drops low enough, the snow squeaks under my feet like styrofoam and the plastic sleds get stuck, stranding the kid halfway down the hill. Snippets of conversation drift over to me, and it's still kind of a thrill to understand them ("But you said four more times!!" "Then hurry, it's getting dark out.")

Occasionally I see other runners, mostly overweight men in polyester tracksuits. Old women with calf-length fur coats amble by in pairs or trios, and often scold me with "Girl! Aren't you cold?" Natasha's friend's daughter, a bright and fun 12-year-old who adorably crammed her English lessons before she came to our apartment, also heckled me as I walked out the door. "You look weird. I can tell you're not Russian. Aren't you cold? I think you're gonna get sick." Regardless of the stares it's nice to run outside among the trees again.