Moscow

Cars battle for pole position on busy streets. No indicators, no warning. The rich and the poor can be distinguished simply by looking at the colour of the car (and the symbol puts it beyond doubt). The black BMW's, sleek Mercedes and powerful luxury 4WD's transfer the elite and super wealthy of Moscow in style. They know they can't be touched, and they drive like it. The poor know that they can't touch the rich, and they drive like it. They live in fear of scratching the perfect paint jobs, fear of having to pay the insurance, fear of watching their last rubles disappear into a bank account that is bursting at the seam.

The city itself is not that beautiful. Old, run-down buildings fill the gaps between restored masterpieces. Yet the history that channels through every cobblestone and every brick evens-out the arrogance. It's culture makes its sinful ways forgivable. It's strength makes the weakest of people seem like spartan warriors, even if it is only in spirit. It's enough to change even the most resolved and uptight of men, and the most level-headed women. Money, it turns out, is everything. All else follows. Especially in Moscow.

If money is the devil, then Moscow must be hell.

Then why don't I want to leave? Have I too been influenced by its powerful methods of persuasion? Or does a part of me secretly want the lifestyle that could exist only in a damned haven like Moscow?

I don't know. But if the the US has the American Dream, then Moscow has the Universal Dream.