Muscovites have no concept of personal space. At least not in 1991. Imagine my 16 year old bewilderment when on a night train to the burbs we were staying at, a babushka sat on one side and started petting my hair and hugging me like a long-lost granddaughter and a 20 something guy sat on the other, put his head on my shoulder and fell asleep! The babushkas in Suzdal were a little more hands off, but not by much. They kept bringing us huge bags of carrots and cukes and the nummy pretzel bread. And jellies they'd made. And yelling at us in Russian, the nearest we could tell, to eat more and marry nice russian boys/girls. When they found out we didn't have hot water in the dorm and we were wimpy americans, we would wake and come home to huge vats of hot water on the stove. They didn't even live there!
The Czechs were comfortably friendly standoffish for me, even when crammed so that only the fact we were pressed together kept us upright on the herky jerky 22 tram up the hill. Except for the pervs who took it as an opportunity to cop a feel. I carried a mechanical pencil to stab wandering hands.
I hate my coworkers. A group of them does kitten fostering and one has a blog. Where she posts video of the month old kittens. And OMG WANT TO SHNUZZLE! This litter is named after the Weaseleys from HP. No more than 3 cats. Just, no.