Yesterday I ran along the Volga coast in Samara, on a quiet sunny day. Loved vessels on airbags cutting across the ice. They look spectacular - everyone has huge ears, like Cheburashka, with propellers from Carlson. I was crazy to fly like that. But it must be expensive. Finally I accepted the thought that a thousand and a half is worth that happiness. And if they are two, then they are gone. They reached the base from where they started. There were six of them, different types. I watched from a distance those who sat down pretending to throw a price. God knows what elite tourists, grandmothers are. Probably to pull. I ran, I asked - how much the excursion time (I am soon to the airport), and how much it costs.

The uncle-captain of the aircraft on the pillow looked at me ironically. He replied, “60 rubles. We are not a tour, but a trip. The municipal transportation.”

A celebration of something. Let the modest pensions, but in which other country can grandmothers fly on the ice for less than a dollar?