Things that I wish Russians would do that they don’t: Salt the damn sidewalk outside of my apartment

This dereliction of duty confuses me. I come from a land where the slightest hint of a snowflake begets the marshalling of a hundred snowplows to battle. I know the Russian government is in general non-responsive to specific citizen demands, but I’m not asking for more state television time for opposition parties, a serious investigation into the execution of journalists critical of the administration, or a permit to hold a protest. I can’t hold a protest because I can’t remain standing long enough to register my complaint. Perhaps that is why the city has chosen to leave the ten blocks between my apartment and my workplace frozen solid and slicked smooth. They are either trying to clamp down on actions threatening to the dignity state or attempting to break the record for world’s largest Slip ‘N Slide.

You know, there are spicing shortages in Russia, but salt is not among them. It’s not as if the Russian government needs to cumin the sidewalk. I would understand the difficulty of laying hands on a vast store of, say, tumeric in Russia, a country which tends to sell spice by the food to which you are to apply it (“vegetable seasoning,” “chicken seasoning,” “mayonnaise seasoning,” etc.). But salt is considered an all-times, all-foods, all-purpose flavoring option. Saltiness is not a concept with which Russians have difficulty. Maybe the government is flummoxed by the array of salty things available at the grocery store. Do they purchase just plain salt? Or do they go with “chicken seasoning” (salt that smells like chicken)? Would “fish seasoning” (salt that smells like fish) effectively mask the citywide smell of rancid diesel, or just replace it with something new and altogether more terrifying? If they’re so paralyzed by indecision, they should just put out a neighborhood alert, calling on dwellers to fling their leftovers out the window, the salt from which would no doubt liquefy the ice in an instant and, in addition, satiate the stray cat population. If the government doesn’t act soon, I will shortly be forced to barge into the nearest apartment I can find, grab a leftover chicken breast from the stovetop (you know what, I’m sure it will have been there for three days, they won’t miss it), and fling it before me every time I take a step.

Failing that, my other option is to buy a pair of fabulously impractical black, knee-high stiletto boots, since these evidently have the best traction of any footwear in the entire country. I’m wobbling in my snow boots and these Russian Amazons just stride past me on three-inch-heels as though Tyra Banks were sitting ten feet away, judging their comparative levels of “fierce.” Meanwhile, I have learned to anticipate which dips in the sidewalk are particularly treacherous, which does not actually relieve the difficulty of navigating them, since stepping into the street results in no change in iciness and only adds oncoming motorists to my increasingly lengthy list of things likely to result in an imminent loss of verticality.

Perhaps what I am saying is that my butt hurts from when I slipped and fell on it yesterday. At least now you’ll know what happened if this blog doesn’t update again until spring: it’s safe to assume that I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.