Anne, at the Hermitage: That's the thing about splendor. It just requires so much UPKEEP.
Me: Who are all the screaming drunks in green hats?
Tamara: The police.
Anne: I want to take your picture!
Hana: Oh, excellent, because this is the first time I've matched my eye makeup to my handbag, and I want it captured.
Later, Anne stages a photoshoot with Hana and I in the men's bathroom in a bar called Fidel. Fidel is next door to the bar called Datcha, which is celebrating its fourth anniversary. We stand outside drinking beers we don't ever remember ordering or paying for -- they just appeared.
We talk to Welsh, Finnish, British, American, Russian people who are all living interesting lives -- journalists, musicians, translators -- Jennifer seems to know everyone.
Fans -- there are fans who come and speak to her in the street -- and they all know she is leaving soon. They press email addresses on slips of paper into her palms.
Drunk, in the gypsy cab (preferred method of transportation in St. Petersburgh), Jennifer laments: How will people in Syracuse know how important I am?
We think they'll know. Darlings, the woman has a famousness about her.