Kyzyl in Photos

Having escaped Kyzyl, a fewphotos arein order.  But I forgot to mention that I deliberately got a haircut in Kyzyl.  Not too bad for $4.

I also forgot to mention that I told my interrigators about my blog.  They asked if this incident would be mentioned in the blog.  I told them it depended on how things turned out.  Won't they be surprised?  They probably won't bother to look.

I have posted some photos Kyzyl.  A cold place in March.

This is the park where the "Center of Asia" monument stands.  It's the round globe with the obelisk on top.

There must have been an ice sculpture contest recently.  Since Septemeber for sure!

Local statues in Kyzyl (Lenin and Ghengis Kahn)

This is the front of the building where I was detained.  As I leaving the black cat showed up, a bit late.

Frozen river that runs past Kyzyl.

Some photos of Kyzyl outdoors, markets, etc.

Kyzyl Airport.  Three flights a week.

Day 122, On the Road Again, Cant Wait to Get on the Road Again...

I have never done this before, but I have surely done it now.  I spent last night in a horrible hotel room by the Krasnoyarsk Airport.  The wall paper is pealing off the walls, the floor creaks with every step and like all Russian indoor spaces it is ridiculously hot.  Despite temperatures below 20 degrees outside I have to keep a window open to keep it bearable. 

Somewhere between Moscow and Krasnoyarsk I have lost any sense of time.  When I wake up the next morning I have this weird feeling of unease.  I am sure my plane doesn't leave for hours so I eat a casual breakfast.  When I return to my room I figure out that I have missed my flight to Kyzyl.  In all my years I have never missed a flight this badly.  I know there isn't another flight for two days, and that is the same plane I am planning to return on. 

I rush over to the airport on the off chance my flight was delayed.  No such luck.  It takes me half an hour to find someone who can help me.  This time I find someone who has about the same level of German as I do.  I try to find another way to Kyzyl.  Taxi?  Nein.  Car rent?  Nien.  Autobus?  Iche frage.  He asks at the bus kiosk.  Ja, there is a bus in 15 minutes.  I run the quarter mile back to the hotel and try to offer anyone money to take me back to the airport.  Language and job duties prevent any takers.  I pack quickly and take off towards the bus stop. On the way I engage my collision avoidance system with that oncoming truck I mentioned in an earlier blog.  I arrive safely at the bus stop and buy my $22 ticket.

To my surprise my newfound German-speaking helper is standing by.  It is below 20 outside and he waited for me.  I was surprised at the gesture, but then I figure out why is there.  We exchange information is out broken German, where we learned it, where I am from, etc.  Then The Big Question comes out, the one I have heard before and expect to never hear again in Russia:

"Why are you going to Kyzyl?'

I explain it is the center of Asia, that geography interests me and I try to tell Fynman's story.  He gets its a bit, I think.  (BTW, he had already asked me about my missing coat when we first met.)  But in his eyes I can see he doesn't get it.  I could go anywhere in the world I wanted to, why would I want to go to Kyzyl?  In my head a little voice agrees with him, tells me to just give up and head on.  But I can't, I just can't.  If you told me that Kyzyl was quarantined, on fire, radioactive and full of zombies I would still want to go there.  Maybe more.  I am dying of thirst and Kyzyl is a cool spring for my parched throat.  I am as driven as any lemming, and Kyzyl is my sea.

The bus arrives and I say goodbye to my best friend for the day, which I tell him.  He tells me Kyzyl is about 300 kilometers away, so I estimate a four hour ride.  WRONG AGAIN KYZYL BOY!

The bus ride ends up being about 14 hours long, covering over 500 of snowy roads.  Some of the scenery is spectacular, but most is dreary.  Our first bathroom stop consists of a shack with a divider between the genders.  There is a rough slab of concrete with two holes cut through, a dirt hole beneath.  Over the cold winter months a kind of yellowish ice rim has formed around the hole, making it almost disappear.  I am grateful for the cold, as it holds back the smell.  The level of primitive facilities does not comfort me about what the future holds.  Just WHY am I going to Kyzyl?

The bus stops every two hours or so for a smoke, food and bathroom break.  There are two drivers that take turns.  At the food stops they explain my lack of Russian by saying something I imagine is "That's our American passenger."  They seem a bit proud that they hauling my tired carcass over the Russian steppe.  The food at one stop is amazingly good, a kind of chicken tortellini in chicken broth.  I also try a skewer of charcoal roasted pork, which is available at each stop.  Yummy.

We finally pull into Kyzyl after midnight.  It is my good fortune that a few enterprising cab drivers are hanging about looking for fares.  I pick a cab that is run my two Mongolians who are besides themselves with joy that they have a customer.  I just say hotel and off we go in a car that shouldn't be allowed on any road to a decent hotel.  I have a prepaid reservation somewhere but I could care less.  The double shift and late hour has taken all of my willpower away.  Its a good lesson that reinforces me not to miss future flights.

While checking in there a brief snag because I don't have the proper paperwork for traveling around Russia.  I share what I have and mention Moscow and that seems to fix the problem.  I was wrong, I had put a temporary patch over a permanent problem.  The patch would not last forever, or even the length of my stay in Kyzyl.  The Russian bear lurks and I don't see or hear him.  He will pounce when he is ready, and not before.  But that is for a later blog entry.  Tonight I am in Kyzyl!  My compliments Proffessor F.!

Day 125: The Cold Immovable Beauracracy Meets the Irresistable Force of Western Observations About Irony, or Maybe it's the Jokes, Maybe it's the Audience, But it's Definitely NOT the Timing!

Timing is everything.  You meet the girl by chance because of timing.  You get the job because of timing.  You have children because of timing.  You actually exist because of timing.  I have been run over by a truck because of timing.  Our cumulative history, even our evolution is a series of timely circumstances.  Change the timing of events in the past and you, me, this whole thing we call reality simply fails to exist.  One could argue the entire universe is the result of some amazing timing.  Expand too slow and it collapses in on itself, too fast and we never coaless into stars, etc.  Sometimes your timing is good, sometimes its bad.  Today mine was lousy.  Absolutely lousy.

My plane was due to leave Kyzyl around 4:45 pm. so I am no hurry to check out of my warm hotel room.  I take my time with breakfast, packing, etc.  I finally get around to a shower around 11:20 a.m. and exit around 11:30 when there is a knock on the door.  Since I know the room phone doesn't work, I assume it is the hotel staff asking when I am leaving.  I dress quickly and open the door to an unknown man and woman.  They announce themselves as immigration officials and ask to see my passport.  They look through it and some other paperwork I give them about  5 times each.  Meanwhile I am packing thinking this is nothing to worry about and I am anxious to vacate the room on time. 

The two officials talk among themselves and then make a call, which they put on speaker phone.  It's an English speaking female voice that tells me I need to go with the immigration agents.  I ask why, and she says they will need to check my papers at their office.  I am not terribly concerned and go with the agents.  They do not offer to help me with my luggage.  Bastards.  The English speaking woman in the admin office by the hotel's front desk has been replaced by someone who doesn't speak English.  The English speaking woman had told me yesterday there might be some trouble about my papers but I had shrugged it off.  After St. Pete. and Moscow why would Kyzyl worry about me?  Why indeed.

We get into a black SUV, the woman now clearly in charge.  We drive to a building that looks like an old motel converted to offices.  Now my papers are examined by more agents over and over again.  They bring up my visa application on the computer.  I try to remember all the stuff I wrote back in Tel Aviv.  I remember I didn't tell them about nuclear weapons, Northwestern University and some other stuff that seemed pointless at the time.  Oh how those meaningless lies are about to catch up with me.  And in Kyzyl no less!

After a while a woman who speaks English shows up.  I don't know if she is the same one from the phone earlier.  She is clearly not happy to be there.  I wonder if she is unhappy doing the translating, and should I start to worry? Then the questions start to come, fast and furious.  One questioner is the woman agent who brought me in.  She is local.  Another agent joins in, but she is from eastern Russia.  Where from, profession, last work, and so it goes.  They are checking against the visa application.  I get that part.  I seem to pass test number one.

The next set of questions get a bit scary:
 
Who have you talked to in Kyzyl? "The women who spoke English in hotel." 
No one else?  "No.  I don't speak Russian." 
How do you manage travel in Russia but not speak Russian?  "People are friendly.  It always works out."
Where have you been in Kyzyl?  I list my walks as best I can.  I try to show my pictures but no one cares.
"Where else have you been in Russia?  How long?"  I answer.
Why didn't you get the proper papers when you left those cities?  Did not know.  I offer the phone numbers of the hotels where I stayed.  No one cares.

Then the biggie, THE ABSLOTELY ONE QUESTION I NEVER EXPECTED TO HEAR WHILE I WAS IN KYZYL, NOT IN A MILLION YEARS.  NEVER, NEVER, NEVER.  NEVER!!!

Why did you come to Kyzyl?

I have heard this question a million times.  I have answered it a million times.  And more than a few times to myself.  I should have illustration cards to hold up when I answer.  I should have tee shirts made with the question on the front and the answer on the back.  I probably say the answer in my sleep.  The answer should be engraved on my tombstone.  I have said it so many times it is rote memory, probably encoded in my dna, to be deciphered by alien archeologists a million years from now.  When they do decode my dna, those aliens will mourn the fact that my Kyzyl is not available for them to visit.  Oh, how those alien hearts will ache a million years hence.

I want to scream as loud as I can.  It's not that the repetition of THE Question has finally broken my self control.  Rather, I want to tell her how the answer should be obvious to her.  Its an interesting, beautiful, exotic place that was on the unfinished bucket list of a famous Nobel laureate with many other accomplishments to his name.  And yet despite all his efforts he never made it to Kyzyl!  I want her to get it so badly I could scream.

Beyond that, this is your home, probably the home of your ancestors going back as far as anyone can recall and before.  The home of a proud people who ruled much of the known world at one time in history and terrorized the rest.  This is where you live, be proud of it, own it, stand up for it.  You shouldn't be asking why I came to Kyzyl, but WHY NOT!! 

But I am not totally insane, so I answer here question as I always do.  The questions keep coming.

How do you get money?
List the countries you have visited.
Do have any friends or family here?
How will you leave Kyzyl?
How did you get here?
Why did you take the bus here?
Why weren't on the plane you paid for?
Why didn't you stay in the hotel where you had a reservation?

It goes on.  I don't think they will ever tire of asking questions, so I try another tactic.  I start making my answers longer.  And longer.  No more yes or no answers.  This means they have to wait a long time to get the full answer translated.  This they don't like.  I can tell the translator doesn't always give the full translation of my answers.  One of my answers has specifics about money, which the translator clearly avoids.  I can see they are losing interest in the process.  I try to tell a few funny asides in my answers.  No smile, nothing.

Eventually they dismiss the translator and she disappears.  The agents start doing paperwork, computer stuff, phone calls, all the stuff people do in an office.  I never hear my name mentioned, but I do see my visage pass by on a computer screen.  Other than that I am invisible.  I start to think if I got up and left no one would notice. But they have my passport and other important papers, so I sit like a stone.  I start getting antsy after an hour.  I had hoped to get a walk around town in before I took a cab to the airport. 

I finally ask a few questions and the translator is on the phone again.  She says she'll be right over.  When she arrives we finally get to the entire weird center of all the enquiry. It all comes down to one thing:

Why did you come to Kyzyl in the winter?

Apparently that is so odd to the agents as to be unbelievable.  Seems they never get winter tourists, especially Americans.  Rarely Americans at all.  And my missed plane, plus the unused hotel room.  Add to the mix the fact that these Tuvans still have a strong attachment to socialism and the soviet system, and it just doesn't add up.  There's probably the inner reasoning that people with money can't be crazy and some distorted view of Americans from years of propaganda and television.  If I don't fit any other category, I must be a criminal. 

All of that prior paragraph came to me in a flash.  I don't fit any other pattern, so I must be up to no good.  The list is short, but spy or smuggler come to mind.  We aren't far from the border with Mongolia.  NOW I GET IT!  A light bulb goes off.  I know exactly, precisely what to do.

I start to play the part of the eccentric American.  I admit its not that much of a reach, but under these circumstances I have been staid and quiet, almost inert.  I start laughing out loud, pointing to my jacket as proof of my weirdness and describing my other adventures.  I try some more jokes with the same result. 

I don't know if my act convinced, cajoled or just annoyed the agents, but within minutes of my turning up the comedy dial I am asked to sign a few papers and am shown the door.  I ask for a ride to the airport, knowing the answer.  Always the act and actor, right up to the end.  I even leave my luggage in their hallway and go for my walk.  A criminal would want to be gone ASAP, so I must be innocent, right?  Props help prop up the act, that's why they are called props.

I even ask if I can take the agents' picture.  I know the answer before I ask.  Only a crazy man would ask.  I am totally in character, and by that ruse I am a free man.  Oh were that so.  I am a fool thinking I have performed my way free of the Russian beaurocracy.  I still have a few days left in Russia.  The Soviet system has one more surprise up its sleeve. 

But I don't think about the future.  I walk around town for a few hours and grab a cab to the airport.  I am a little sad at leaving, having met the goal of my quest.  I have not gone bust, but have almost been busted (arrested).  It should all be easy going from here.

God loves fools because they are so entertaining.  I have one more show to do before I get home.  Lucky me that I get to help a deity laugh.

Day 123, Kyzyl Dreaming

I get up in the morning to a dazzling bright winter day.  It is cold but the air is still.  Did I say cold?  There must be another name for it here.  The middle of March in Kyzyl and it's cold enough to freeze the fluids in your nose in about two breaths.  Cold enough that the snow on the sidewalks crystalizes overnight, making it crunchy to walk on until it is compressed again.  Cold enough that I learn to ignore the sound of spinning tires because it is the norm, not the exception,  So cold that the mile wide river next to town looks like a collection of frozen ice jambs.  I wonder if it ever thaws out here.  Do they have permafrost?

I walk a few hundred yards from the hotel to gawk and take pictures of the monument marking the center of Asia.  It is topped by a tiny reindeer.  Nearby is a yurt and some prayer flags.  There are also several monuments to communism or socialism or something like that.  The park is neat, clean and well built.  A radio station blares over a loudspeaker.  There is a good display of ice carvings.  I walk around town wondering where everyone is.  Kyzyl is the capital of the state of Tuva, a city of 50,000 people, but I see very few.  I walk around town and see different government buildings and statues.  None of the buildings are over 4 or 5 stories.  In one spot there is the familiar statue of Lenin, standing with an outstretched arm.  Next to it is one of those digital billboards that changes its message constantly. Lenin would have choked on his statue being so close to such a symbol of capitalism.

People seem friendly enough to give me a glance but not a stare.  I think my light outerwear is a subject of their curiosity.  It seems like around half the people are local Mongolians (the country of Mongolia is not far away) and the other half are from eastern Russia.  About once a day some Russian asks me a question, probably directions. They look puzzled when I say nyet Russisch.  I found out later even that simple phrase was wrong, but they seemed to get the idea. 

Kyzyl is exotic enough to be interesting but not dangerous.  It's kind of hard to get to, but that can be said of a lot of places.  A bit of that 'trouble' was my own doing.  It's not the upper Amazon, Antarctica or the Highlands of Borneo.  Kyzyl is just out of the way, slightly exotic, slightly foreboding and  historically restricted to outsiders.  It's just Kyzyl, and that's the way I like it.

PHOTOS TO BE INSERTED LATER

Day 126, Truth, Always Stranger Than Fiction, (Please note that blog entries are not in order)

OK.  Enough suspense.  I did make it to Kyzyl.  Barely.  It was exactly what I was searching for.  Except for when the Russian Immigration authorities came to my hotel and took me to their offices for questioning.  I couldn't begin to make this stuff up.  Truth is definitely stranger than fiction.

At this moment I am waiting for a cab to the airport to catch my flight to Beijing.  I was only able to obtain a transit visa so I have four days in China before I must leave.  I'll head home after China.  Feeling pretty chipper in an Ibis hotel in Glasnoyarsk.  Flight to Beijing leaves in 4 hours.

Kyzyl will require three separate blog entries.. What an adventure!  And I didn't have to bribe anyone or sustain too much torture.  What a country!

Day 125, On the Uncertain Reality of Existance, or Kyzyl Dreams and Smoke

This is weird.  I mean truly, absolutely, undenialble weird.  Strange.  Unclear.  Unnatural.  Unbeleivable.  There is no sense or reality to what I remember.  Or at leat what I THINK I remember.

I am in a bed, a single bed.  My packed lugagge is at one end of the room.  A few items out of the bags are nearby.  I check the tiny bathroom and it is void of clues.  It is very quiet.  I look outside and see a blank white snowscape, faint and featureless but for a small stand of birch trees nearby.  I smell a faint whiff of smoke, maybe a wood fire.  I listen closely and I hear two young people laughing then talking in Russian.  I find what loks to be a hotel room key, the name in Cyrlic and undecipherable.  For now I don't know the time or place of my existence.  It is frightening and a bit exhilerating at the same moment.

I start to remember things.  I remember people asking me who I am, where I am going, why am I going there, and where is my coat.  Many people, and they all ask where is my coat.  It is cold there they say, where is my coat?  They say it it English and Russian, a thousand times over, where is my coat?  I don't have a coat.  I don't want a coat.  I need a coat.  I appreciate their concern but it worries me a little.  I wonder what they know that I dont know.  Will I die without a coat?  Is a coat a legal requirement where I am going?

I remember other people asking me about my papers.  They ask for papers I never needed before, never had before and never will have.  I remember thinking that it is midnight and without papers I will be sleeping outside in the cold. I remember that the people's concern for my being coatless was right.  I remember wishing that I had a coat.  Or wishing there was coat store that was open at midnight on a Saturday.

Saturday!  I remember it was midnight on a Saturday.  I turn on the computer tablet and see that it is now Tuesday.  Where did the last two days go?  Or three, depending on which side of Saturday was that midnight I remember.

Ther's a pile of papers on the dresser.  There should be a clue there.  Yes!  A plane ticket!  Or part of one, from Moscow to Krasnoyarsk to Kyzyl.  The first leg out of Moscow is used, but the second leg to Kyzyzl is intact.  I was supposed to be on that plane three days ago according to the ticket, but apparently I didnt make it.  What happened?  I just can't recall, no matter how hard I try.  The clouds in my head will lift at their own speed and I unable to rush the process forward.

There is a noise to my left, a big noise, which I soon recognize as a jet taking off.  I open the window and find that I know where I am, at a hotel next to the Krasnoyarsk airport.  In a minute it is quiet again.  Now, instead of the peace of the solitude and quiet, I am starting to hate it.  I need clues, not emptiness.

Remember when I said it was a bit exhilerating a few minutes ago?  That feeling is totally gone, replaced by a large dose of dread and a fast growing feeling of fear, with panic running a speedy third place.  If there is a finish line, panic will surely win, unless I can get my act together and figure this all out.

I notice that I am extremely stiff and sore, more than I have felt in many years.  I feel a little beat up but I see no bruises.  Everything hurts, from my toes to my nose.  I go to the bathroom mirror to check if I am bearing any physical clues to my pain, but I see nothing.  But wait a second!  Yes, absoutely, for sure.  Unbelieveable.  I've had a haircut.  Remarkable!  I look just like my passport photos, even though I haven't had a haircut in five months.  At least, that I can remember.

I am starting to hate that word, remember, mostly because I DON'T remember!  It's infuriating me more than scaring me.  Why can't I remember!  I might have shouted out that last part.  I don't care if I did or who hears it.  I just WANT TO REMMBER!

There's that word again.  Remember.  I try and sure enough a litle bit comes back to me.  I remember staying at this hotel a few days ago.  I remember hauling my baagge down the snowy walkway and across the icy road that leads to the airport building.  I remember the truck on the road, both of use slipping and sliding trying to avoid one another.  It all plays out in slow motion, like two olympic skaters on the rink, apart but destined to be joined together on the ice while crowd watches.  I can almost see myself in the crowd, but now it more like a NASCAR event crowd awaiting the inevitable crash, again in slow motion.  The roar of the crowd in anticipaton is deafening.  I am not sure if I should join in on the spectical or not.

There is another plane tickt on the table, for a trip from Krasnoyarsk to Beijing.  It leaves in an hour.  I need to catch that plane, to say goodbye to Russia and continue my journey around the world.  I need to shower, shave and pack.  I can tell I haven't shaved for a few days, maybe another clue.  I finish getting ready in haste, and I find an empty vodka bottle under the bed.  Given the volume of dust bunnies that reside there it may have been there a day or a year.  I have no time to look further.  I am off to Beijing as fast as my feet and the snow will carry me.

Perhaps more details of te past few days will come to me.  Believe me, I want those to come back to memory more than any of you.  I'll work hard on it an keep you posted

OK.  I know some of you wanted closure.  An Ending.  A  surmise, success or failure?  The blog is titled Kyzyl or Bust, and neither is guaranteed.  For now I don't have an answer.  For that I apologize.

I warned you that this episode might be dangerous for your mental health.  A cliffhanger indeed!

Even I, the central (and mostly sole) character in this blog am anxious to see how it turns out.  And so doth the tale unfold before us, not as we like, but as it will.

Stay tuned!

Day 120, Back in the USSR, Boys! You don't know how lucky you are boys...

Another cheap flight back to Moscow, then a train plus a subway ride to an Ibis hotel near Moscow University, two subway stops from Red Square.  Moscow is the big time in Russia and it shows.  Lots of new high rise office buildings, hotels, apartment buildings and shops everywhere.  Lots of halted construction projects as well.  The economy is linked to energy and energy prices are down.

But the women are,as pretty as St. Petersburg's, the food is great and I am starting to figure things out.  By the second day I can navigate the subway system without a map.  I start to figure out some of cyrlic alphabet by reading well known signs.  An "n" in cyrilic is an "i" in Latin, etc.  I am also getting used to the melody of the Russian language.  And I start to hear repeated words, but I don't know what they mean.

Besides Red Square visits, I tried one time to find a winter coat.  Winter is tailing off and the shops I have visited before were too small to have a real selection.  The hotel staff looks up "Russia's largest military store" on the web and I am off to find it.  What a comedy of errors.

First, the address I have is wrong and incomplete.  I have 49 Arbat Street, but its really 17 Arbat Street.  Actually, 17 Old Arbat Street.  Second, although I am told otherwise by several people I ask at the metro, Arbat just starts arbitrarily a half mile from the metro.  So I walk until the street I am on becomes Arbat Street.  Simple, right?

Two miles later I pass #39, thinking its only a mile or so to #49 (numbers go by very slowly).  The crowd I was walking in earlier is gone, I am the only pedestrian around.  I cross a busy intersection and head across the Moscow River in a howling wind.  A thousand knives would have been more gentle.  I get to the other side, walk yet another mile until I discover Arbat Street has been replaced by some name I can't spell or pronounce.  So back across the river and up the hill I go.

By now it is dark.  After a while I see a large Marriott Hotel across Arbat Street.  It is at half a mile to a pedestrian crossing, so I decide to jaywalk.  This is no small choice as Arbat Street has eight lanes of heavy, fast moving traffic.  It probably takes me five minutes to wait for the right moment to run across, but it feels like an hour.  Think about crossing the DC beltway for a similar adventure.  Not my favorite moment in Russia.

The front desk at the Marriott sets me straight (and warms me up) and I set off for "Old" Arbat Street, which is now a pedestrian  only shopping street.  American brands pop up a lot, but I am surprised to see a Shake Shack here, a relatively new brand back home.

I find the military store upstairs from a watch store.  It is about the size of a one car garage.  While I don't find a desirable coat, I do pick up a gift for home.  I had to walk halfway out of the shop to get a fair price.  I probably only overpaid 100%, but it wasn't that expensive anyway.

One note about Moscow is how clean it is, especially the subway.  If there a lone piece of trash on the subway platform people stare at it like it was a tap dancing rodent, although no one picks it up.  I guess that's someone else's job.

I forget to tell the story of "Spitfire Girl" in my entry about Leningrad.  Remind and I'll tell you in person.  She was and is my heroine while in Leningrad.

OK.  So a longer blog and more pictures, but hey it's Moscow for goodness sakes.  BTW, its as safe and friendly as any place I have been.  Everyone I asked for directions was extremely kind and courteous, and mostly non-English speaking.

WARNING: the next blog entry from Krasnoyarsk may be hazardous to your mental health!  Read with CAUTION!!

Inside a Moscow subway station.  Very clean, reliable cheap.  Built in 1930s.

 The subway system is very deep underground so the escalators are very long.   There is person monitoring the escalator on a tiny booth at each end.  What a boring job!  The escalators were always working, not at all like the ones in the DC Metro stations.

The old G.U.M. department store.  It was called the workers paradise during the USSR days when it was the largest store on the world.  Now it is an upscale mall

 St. Basile's Cathedral on Red Square.

Another church on the square.

Kremlin buildings and wall.  The Kremlin was originally built as a fortress.

Eternal flame monument to the Russian war dead in the Great Patriotic War.  I made the mistake of sitting nearby.  Definitely not allowed!!!

 

Oh yea, there's a Burger King in another mall near the metro station.