ABSTRACT
My first day in America. Brooklyn. An apartment like you would see in any suburban area of Moscow, where the elderly live—this apartment belongs to friends of my parents. It is in Brighton Beach. I don't understand television: the voices seem deep and guttural, only separate words reach my mind. I am tired and sleepy. We are all half alive, after the 10 hour flight from Italy: The urban landscapes on our way from JFK airport to Brooklyn are ugly: I cannot believe that is my reality now. I am depressed already.
