Saint Petersburg has turned into more than a city. We have arrived in the middle of temptations. Even Saint Augustine wouldn’t have been able to refuse all of them. These are our confessions.
What has happened? We arrived two weeks ago, curious and a bit anxious, to take our first baby steps in the desert of Russian language. The trip proved to be much more than a grammar lesson: we have encountered many dangerous distractions along the way.
First of all: our teacher. We invite you to read the memorable and quite inviting blog on this subject. She is a different light after all the boring language lessons we were obliged to follow. Katya, sun of all suns; sea among lakes; shooting star in the middle of waiting planets, we thank you like three ugly ducklings thank their mother for taking them along.
Secondly: as a result of the utter desolateness of the environment, we have been forced to break out and investigate the city. This has been quite interesting: during their first visit to the Nevskij Prospekt, after five minutes, the Robust Hero and Beethoven walked into a flash-mob of tight skirted girls. Then we had a pizza. Which was very nice. The heroes walked along the bridges. They were painted in many beautiful, exotic colours. The water added a combination of sunny Amsterdam and dreamy Venice to the houses along the glistening water. The architecture is preposterously rich in Saint Petersburg. It’s strange: one thinks one has seen it all before, but in a slightly different order. Along the canals, the city is like a combination of three girls you once liked when you didn’t have the observation skills to define their outstanding qualities.
At night, the city is like a dark angel, spreading her wings over the dawning city. Drunk people, blinking neon lights, gushing beer, honking hummers, singing Russians (and Dutchmen – no, only Dutchmen are singing: our voices match well. At least, that’s what we know for certain. We think. We do.), improvisation taxi’s, whole chickens for sale, sudden fireworks, an almost empty metro with empty beer cans under the seats, opening bridges (yes, you do feel like losing the ground under your feet, that’s a marvellous feeling. Let go.), an overabundance of alcohol and finally: getting home at seven o’clock in the morning and still sweating from the heat, a heat that seems to be hiding under your sheets, a heat that captures all your thoughts and makes you yearn for someone walking by and providing a slight breeze.
Although we promised ourselves otherwise, our third temptation has been one of the oldest and mightiest powers in the world: beer. At the time of our arrival (how long ago!) we were very willing to learn the Russian language (and what a beautiful, poetic, logical, nonsensical, singing and desiring language this one turned out to be!) and drink as little alcoholic beverage as possible, but as soon as the Noble Friend discovered the wonder of beer in a huge plastic bottle, we started a journey along the wonders of the world which constitute the huge amount of possible Russian alcoholic sweethearts. The best beer is Slovakian origin, though. The best vodka doesn’t rime with vodka. And the best wine is Georgian. Georgians know how to perform karaoke. Fat ladies dance to the song of an old, bold man. These are the days.
Fourthly, we are but humans, we’d like to mention the Russian Girl. She walks around on VERY high heels (kabluki) and dresses in such tight clothes, the laws of decency demand we hold our breath and be silent. She is too skinny, though, and a smile rarely escapes from her stiff lips. She has got rather long hair, which she likes to sweep past an unsuspecting body in the metro. Her eyes are fierce, bitterly fierce, and gaze like someone who’s going to war. She likes sunglasses, an occasional piercing, thick, red lips, and she has got a tendency to look like the types we encounter in the centre of our home town, draped with lingerie, behind red lights, adorned with grins of old woman.
Finally, we couldn’t leave this blog without telling all of you of the beautiful, fascinating, captivating, mesmerizing Neva. The Neva flows like a queen: her wide, auburn eyes gaze along every spot of the horizon (she knows all that is in her area already.) as she slowly descends to the city. Her throne is somewhere else, somewhere in the east, in a sun-drenched palace guarded by patient soldiers. Her arms are folded around her waist, to allow her to glide through the water like a silent ship. She is a Siren, luring us into the deep; a Cleopatra, stinging her servants in the breasts; a Natasha Rostov, winking her maids with an ascending smile. She doesn’t have to use her legs, as her environment guides her politely through her country.
All senses fade away
In the darkness of such a day.
We will go alone, where eyes can’t see the end
Of the river, where ears can’t hear a sound.
So silent searching footsteps take us
To our last will: to be buried in the river,
To our only faith: Queen Neva,
To our final truth:
She must be loved.
Yours truly,
Ziggy, Willem and Florian.
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