It once was that any hopeless American man—no matter just exactly how fat, bald, or ugly—could journey to Moscow and return to Topeka by having a trophy wife that is gorgeous.

It once was that any hopeless American man—no matter just exactly how fat, bald, or ugly—could journey to Moscow and return to Topeka by having a trophy wife that is gorgeous.

But compliment of a booming Putin-era economy—and all the prosperity and gold-plated Land Rovers that are included with it—the times of the grateful Russian bride are fading fast

it’s 6:30 p.m., and everybody is crowded as a gloomy, nondescript space regarding the very first flooring of Kiev’s St. Petersburg resort. Tonight’s impresario, Jack Bragg, looks frantic, as well as the perspiration is seeping through their bandanna using the miniature Confederate flags in the mirror next to the coat check—and the interpreters, all women, are on their cell phones or talking to one another on it, and the men look edgy—they’re straightening their ties, straightening their eyebrows, staring at themselves. Bragg, that is perhaps perhaps not just a tiny guy and seems like a Hells Angel together with sunglasses and goatee, is gesticulating extremely, along with his voice seems like a timpani. Read more