Hostel Hunting: Moscow Pizza

Fresh, or more appropriately wilted, off a plane from Toronto I had successfully navigated the Moscow subway with my newly acquired Cyrillic skills and just had to find my hostel. Yet when I reached what I thought was the address it was just a plain, tall apartment building. Furrowing my brow I continued down the street to what looked like a pizza restaurant sign. Inside did not look like a pizza restaurant nor did it look like a hostel. The security guard regarded me as if I'd told him a marinara sauce recipe in Italian when I inquired 'hostel?' so I retreated. Reconsulting my address I peered around before returning to the original place. There was no buzzer so I tried the door and sure enough it opened to a small dark foyer. Inside a glass booth not unlike an old fashioned cinema vendor sat a curmudgeonly old lady but she did react when I repeated my query. Hesitantly I handed over my passport when prompted and nearly five minutes later a young lady appeared at the locked inner door to bring me to the third floor hostel.