Woke up Sunday in the grips of coughy, achy, wanna-put-a-bullet-in-my-head-sinus pain, which–despite sixteen hours of sleep–persisted. On the plus it’s a day off work. Possibly two, if my head keeps pounding like a train crossing a trestle.

Oedipus and Electra are freaking out in a big way. Plastic tarps cover most of the furniture; nearly all their escape hatches are blocked with ladders and tubs of spackle. Precise few respite options for them, really. Well, there is my bed, a cushy retreat where they have taken to huddling. And taking big swipes at my legs through the duvet. After seven years with much the same arrangement of furniture, it seems logical that a major change unnerves them so thoroughly.

Otherwise, it’s one big happy cat pile in this place.

In two weeks, my apartment is getting painted twice. First in the color the landlord wants, and the second time in the palette I actually want.

Let me step back, because this circuitous route to a more appealing abode can make sense. At least I hope it might. About ten months ago, the landlord assented after seven years he made enough cash off my occupancy to throw a little love back. He redid my bathroom from the floor up, and then promised fresh paint for the entire apartment. The bathroom project wrapped in August; that left Project Color Streak.He set a day: November 1, 2007. He hired someone to fill in holes and prep the walls. He also hired a crew to paint the apartment. He bought lots of paint.

There was one catch.

It’s all Navajo white. He will only paint the place in Navajo white. He loves the color. The same fricking shade I’ve been looking at for nearly eight years. Feh. I offered to paint the apartment myself and eat the cost of paint and time, and he refused. I offered to buy the colors I wanted and let his crew have at it. He also refused. The only way he will paint the apartment is with his crew, and in his goddamn Navajo white.

Then came a moment of clarity. I asked if I could paint over his paint. He agreed.

So the moment his precious coats of Navajo white dries, out come a fresh set of rollers and a whole new world of color. Rich saturated hues like Chili pepper and Thornton Sage. Now that’s what I’m talking about.

There are two Russia’s. One takes a 9 hour flight from Newark and the other awaits the curious a mere 45 minutes from Central New Jersey by car. Brighton Beach, also known as Little Odessa, is the East Coast version. This Saturday I explored these unique streets of Brooklyn. From the signs to the people on the street, everything was Russian.

Step one, cross the Verazano Bridge. By the way, it’s ill advised to stand close to the bridge while photographing it. Something about Homeland Security.

Once in Brooklyn, follow the signs for Brighton Beach. You’ll know when you’re close.

Oh, this is Little Odessa, all right.

After parking in the municipal lot, consider a walk down the main drag in a pair of super wide shoes.

Or maybe take the Packard for a spin.

After a nice stretch, curl up with a good book.

If the action gets to crazy, run for the shelter.

A man can get thirsty on those long winter nights.