Respect to the kind Russian woman in the Fresh honey hued hooded coat (Who said the ex-eastern bloc doesn't have style!?) on the Q train. In uncharacteristic, "I don't give a fuck about you," New York fashion, she recognized my darting eyes as an indication that I, like most morning commuters, desperately wanted a seat. She then recognized that the ridiculously wide stance* of the men surrounding her on each side of the subway bench accounted for enough space for at least one more person then proceeded to urge them and then finally scoot/butt bump them over so I could sit down. You get a gold star, hammer and a sickle!
Although it's been over a decade since my feet touched what was then Soviet Union soil, barfing my weak-stomached way from Seattle to Moscow to Tashkent on the incomparable (in a bad way) Aeroflot Airlines there is no love lost. I am eternally grateful for that childhood sojourn; the first of many transoceanic flights that opened me up to the world outside of all of our windows.
* Male Privilege in action one again.