It was hot and overcast on a Sunday in late July. My companion and I wandered down the narrow dirt path, weaving through the Moscow forest. We had a few more minutes of time to kill, but the path was ending, and we‘d already walked the other end of it. Smoke and the scent of shoshliki (kabobs) wafted through the mugginess, greeting us warmly. A dark haired family gathered before us, their handmade tablecloth spread filled with rice pilaf and salads
“Maybe. Should we check?“ It was against the rules to teach Muslims, so we hesitated to approach them.