I love the magic of twilight. For me, in all its beauty and uncertainty, it is the perfect time to reflect. At the meeting of light and dark, I like to walk softly and see the gradual change in character as Petersburg slips into shades of dark blue and softens her imperial mask, the buildings awash in gold streetlights. These dwindling hours of twilight here are when everyone in the city emerges to savor the gentle embrace of air ruffled by sea breezes and a sky never fully black. It isn’t a real night, but it is full of energy, a kind of animal buzzing. The rustling of the woods, and the brilliance of stars in Montana dusk is replaced here with the chatter of many languages and the clatter of dress shoes and perilous high heels. Without the brilliant sun directly overhead, with the dividing line of night and day visible crossing the night sky, it suddenly becomes important to exist in the throbbing spirit that is eternal to the city. It is older somehow than the cosmopolitan buzz of other cities, despite this city being younger than our Boston, and I can only imagine the frenetic sense of need will grow as we near the solstice and at least one day without end...
Halfway points like these, between days and hours, are the perfect time to meet other travelers, which is how I ended up lying on the grass in a park with a group of European students, watching the darkness march towards the city and then exit in a soft dawn. My new friend and fellow daydreamer April invited me to the French students’ going away party, and so we sat on the Field of Mars practicing Russian, English, whatever language seemed best for the sentiment. This system only proved difficult when the boys would switch to French, which neither of us understood. Being French, the champagne and wine was flowing, and the party was good-natured enough we were even joined by real Russians. In the background, the first eternal flame in Russia, lit for the sacrifices of soldiers in WWI, flickered against a semi-circle of Russian men, one of whom put his foot, cigarette resting on knee, atop the low metal wall protecting the light. It was June 6, the poet Pushkin’s birthday, a very important day in Russia (and more importantly for the American abroad, the 70th anniversary of D-Day.) With my grandfather in mind, this sight gave me pause for a moment and I even felt a flash of anger--how dare he rest his foot on the monument of heroes, even if they aren’t my heroes--but then it occurred to me that no Russian soldier would begrudge a comrade a good smoke...I had a sudden vision of ghostly men in uniforms from ages past warming themselves by the fire and tossing cigarette butts in. It occurred to me then that our heroes, no matter what nation we are in, were ordinary people capable of extraordinary things through love--love of an ideal, or a need to protect those they loved (or even the primitive love of life a scared boy might have, holding a rifle on a front far from home...) I would like to imagine they enjoy watching these celebrations of life made possible by their sacrifice, that they do not begrudge the living their joy, and that at least some of them were peering down through the twilight.
The whole city was one grand party, with people outdoors enjoying the beauty of the cities parks. The lanterns released into the sky glowed gently, and the light lowered further. And so, prosaically enough, April and I began our quest for a bathroom, which led us towards the Neva river and the crowds. But we could not resist stopping to watch the bridges rise against the skyline, and the ships hurrying on up and down the river. We walked up Nevsky Prospekt, past street musicians and dancers and even a group of young schoolchildren, up late to watch the bridges. And then, we were at the university, where I left the petite April, and I set out on the short walk to my apartment. The city is a safe place, generally speaking, and I wasn’t in a district with bars...Nevertheless, whenever a man offered me a cigarette (several times) or called out to the “cute girl in the long skirt”,” my strides lengthened and I leveled my best Russian stare at them, prompting a few comments--my favorite I think was, “Oh, soo, you clearly don’t smoke.”
The sky lightens as I reach the apartment, shaking a little from adrenaline. I had not intended to walk back through the shadows of a Friday night...But the light of dawn reminded me of the temporary nature of the acquaintances and adventures that accompany them. Life passes so quickly from its day, with its brilliance and shadows, into a night, which is not without beauty, and back into day again. The eternal patterns of light and dark are etchedinto our primitive memories. Perhaps that is why we revel when day and twilight reign during what should be night. The White Nights are a victory--over winter, over night, over sorrows that feed an eternal flame. Summer here, the fluid half-light, is the domain of new memories and love...Anger and sorrow and fear, the nights of our lives, are instead illuminated by a soft light.
It has rained all day today...purifying Petersburg of all its Friday night sins. And Anna left to visit her parents at the dacha this morning, driving out into the countryside, which was fine with me. I couldn’t stand the thought of walking out in that cold drizzle by myself, and I wanted nothing more than to be alone with my Russian books and my thoughts. So I began to translate my first bit of work for the Museum of Music--it’s web description. My heart wasn’t in it, so I worked on reading the copy of my favorite YA novel, the Lightning Thief, in Russian. But books couldn’t drown the confusing memory of the illumination I felt the night before, and the sorrowful news from home this morning. Even Black Books, the British TV show that Anna also happens to love, couldn’t cheer me up. So, after being alone with my Russian books, I wanted nothing more than to walk in the twilight again...
Love!
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