Here in New Hampshire frost heaves, fortunately, are seasonal and our highway departments still have enough in their budgets to put out the bright pink signs giving fair warning.  All highway departments are not so considerate, or well off.
     It reminds me of an experience I had one time in Russia.  We were just arriving back from Peterhoff, the amazing summer palace of Peter the Great, and were in the middle of Petersburg.  It was rush hour, which made dodging the yamas [potholes] a bit more tricky.  Yamas are rather serious in Russia, and frequent.  They range in size from small cars (yamas), to large inner tubes (yamkas), to a variety of creative, smaller shapes and sizes (yamochkas).
     We had a system worked out for helping Stass, our driver.  I was sitting in the front and was designated as the vocal alarm.  I practiced saying the three variations with appropriate tones of voice: normal, loud, or panic.  If swaying to miss a yama ran the risk of running us into an adjacent car (there aren't any yellow lines, there are simply as many lanes as needed, depending on traffic) I was to combine the words for car and pothole.  As the word car in Russian begins with "ma," a yama with an adjacent car became a mama, mamka, or mamochka, as the case required.
     If the vocal alert failed to work, Ludmilla, who was sitting in the back behind Stass, was to grab his shoulders and he would then slam on the brakes.  All was going well until, as they say in Russia, like snow on your head, suddenly, we heard Stass cry out, "Oyyyyyy" and ka-boom! we hit a first rate yama.
     Fortunately, Stass had the presence of mind to gun the engine as soon as we hit, so at least we made it out of the hole.  He pulled over and excused himself to survey the situation.  He soon returned saying that good fortunate was indeed with us.  We only blew one tire and Sasha, who had borrowed it to go on vacation, had remembered to return it just last week.  If all that weren't enough, we ended up opposite a lovely little park, and had, just 30 minutes before, stopped at a road stand to buy piroshki [pastries] and bottled water.
     Like a true gentleman, Stass opened the door for Ludmilla, helped her out, dashed around the car to open my door, and then dashed back to the trunk from which he pulled out a thin, green wool blanket.
"Ladies, please!" he said, cheerfully arranging the blanket under a little stand of birch trees.  We seated ourselves as Stass rushed back to the car to get the bottled water and piroshki.  He then restarted the car, carefully driving it up over the curb and across the sidewalk, coming to a halt on the edge of the park, close to where we were sitting.  He kindly turned on the radio and invited us to enjoy the music and our picnic while he changed the tire.  It was a lovely day after all, balmy, and without a cloud in the sky.  We were to let him know if there was anything else he could do for us.
     Stass proceeded to change the tire with a skill that comes only with much experience, and then, seeing a small fountain at the other side of the park, whipped out a bucket and cloth from the trunk, made a dash for the fountain, and then commenced to wash the car.
     "Please, ladies!" he announced when our shiny new car was ready again.  When we arrived back at our room, we all remarked on what a perfect day it had been: such a lovely drive in the country, the wonders of Peterhoff, and then Stass's thoughtfulness in preparing such a lovely picnic for us.

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