St. Petersburg
Outside, the rain pounded on the tin rooftop of my photographic memory. Only a few hours into the afternoon, it was already dark. My mind, drunk and heavy from every cultural stereotype imaginable, was as close to the Arctic Circle as the innocuous years. Black and white images hung dripping over the claw foot bathtub, flickering in the moody breeze. No wonder they call this city a perfect medium for the melancholy artists it breeds, I thought, drifting into desolate sentimentalism. The rain let down for a moment, a tired tram passed on the street underneath, and in the lonely courtyard a dog barked defensively at a canine frustration.
There was such camaraderie then, my stream of consciousness continued, and such simplicity—
With eyes closed, I watched their bare feet stomping along dewy midnight grass from the cozy wooden house to a dreamy pond. Phantom whispers sang girl-child songs in unison and sand fell between our youthful toes. A mere train ride away, crowds breathed hope into the misty air, and drawbridges opened wide to an inspired collective future. Strangers gazed into each other's eyes knowingly. Each of their fathers had fought the imperial injustice; surely, their sisters had all weaved braids of national unity. We looked up momentarily and saw Cyrillic letters rising to the sky.
Finally, I stood up, my heart beating anxiously and passionately. Through the longing haze, I had managed to make up my mind:
This missing piece of mine, it must learn to travel oceans and transcend hemispheres. Even though they charge me with unforgiving tales of the red Cold War, as long as there is Slavic history flowing through my veins, the nostalgia will always outgrow the distance to create one eclectic brew in this multi-cultural teapot of my soul.
