Last night I went with a dear friend to a place called Moscow on the Hill, a pricier-than-most-but-worth-every-penny kind of place, where we shared a flight of excellent vodka (the one from Estonia was probably the best, though France, Poland, and Sweden were delicious), had escargot (for the first time - who knew snails could be so delicious), really good entrees, and to top it all off, blintzi for desert. Kindof like crepes, but much smaller, filled with some sort of delicious thick cream, dried fruit, and nuts, with chocolate sauce over the top, served warm. The waiter said the tiramisu is better than any Italian restaurant around, so I'll definitely be going back, if only for vodka and desert.

After dinner, we went to see Charlie Wilson's War. Not realizing this was by Aaron Sorkin (I've been getting into West Wing of late), I didn't know quite what to expect, and good grief it was good. The irony of eating at a Russian restaurant and then going to a movie in which there is frequent mention of trying to kill Russians did not escape me.

It seems more and more I am realizing how much I don't understand present reality. Though relatively well-educated and well-traveled, I know very little about the world and how it functions. I don't understand war or why it happens in the least. And I find myself thinking that things would be a lot better if we still did things like this as they did in the old days...no long range weapons beyond bow and arrow and javelin, no fighting in winter, and political leaders and those instigating the war earned their positions of power, in part at least, through their prowess in battle, and continued (as I understand it) to go to war themselves. Not that there was no brutality or horror. Far from it. But it was much more up close and personal that I understand it to be these days, and perhaps that kept something of a check on things. Or maybe it didn't. As I said, I don't understand such matters. I don't think I ever will. You should see the movie. It's a bit depressing, and quite good.