Lenin Street is a street of contrasts. From dour gray buildings, windows offer a glimpse of flowering cactuses, ferns, aloe. Next to closed stores, street vendors ply a thriving trade. The central part of the street runs from a prison, where young girls shout over the walls to their loved ones inside, to a park commemorating heroes of the revolution. In the distance, a ferris wheel rises incongruously from the buildings on the edge of the city.

In the early evening, a sidewalk cafe is set up for those hardy enough to brave the nip in the air. A vendor sells fresh shashlik alongside dried fish, with beer and cognac to wash it down. People huddle around the plastic tables, talking and eating as the sun begins its slow descent over the hills west of the city.

A chill wind rises suddenly, breathing new life into the coals in the shashlik grill and lashing the laundry hanging behind the houses. People walking along the street turn their collars up and squint against the stirring dust. The weather's not so good today; perhaps it will be better tomorrow.

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