Snowflakes are melting against the leather strap of my Leica as a sea of oversized sweatshirts and neon leg warmers surges past the cinema marquee. I catch a flash of spandex beneath a heavy wool coat, a sharp silhouette against the flickering neon signage shouting that *Beverly Hills Cop* is sold out again.
The air smells of roasted chestnuts and damp asphalt, illuminated by the cold glow of a nearby shop window displaying a lonesome, plastic Transformer. It’s an awesome sight, even with the grim headlines about those Soviet leaders frozen in the morning newsprint.
Memories from that day
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