Behind me is St. Basil’s confectionary cathedral, and in the distance is the North Gate of the Kremlin. Minutes after I took this picture is when the snowstorm rolled in.
The stones here are weathered and pitted with age. The Patriarch’s Entrance, where I sat down to write in my journal, is quiet and surprisingly free of the swarms of tourists the clamber all over everythying else here, mostly toting bottles of vodka and cheap cigarettes.