My wife’s head is tilted at a precarious angle; she can’t be comfortable. Our nine-month-old dosing peacefully in her lap is the image of comfort. I’ve got a ten pound head in my lap. Every couple of moments, the body attached to it squirms a little.

My family is making what is turning out to be our bi-annual trip to Mother Russia. After a few days of frantic running hither and yon, our plane ride is half over. I really should be sleeping as I’ll need every ounce of strength in me for the next leg of the journey. But I’m not. The orangey poke in the sky, 35,000 feet above the Atlantic caught my imagination.

There is something ethereal in the air before the sun bursts onto the day. Even on a plane full of unknown people, the magnetic strings of the mood suck me in.

Now the shapely stewardess, wearing her smart red uniform is coming down the aisle, wielding a curled duty free catalog. And with a few downward thrusts, the window covers are closed. And with them, my mood.

Maybe I’ve got an opportunity to catch a few more winks after all. Wait, what’s that whimpering sound? Nikita is stirring. And something tells me my winking will have to wait for later.

Soon we’ll find what fun it can be to ride the Muscovian Metro during rush hour on a Friday afternoon with two large pieces of luggage, two children, and a pram. Why? Alexei loves riding the metro. Silly parents, next time get a cab.