By Plane–
From Prague–
To Petersburg,
Or the Flight Rediscovering What Home is . . .
From Prague–
To Petersburg,
Or the Flight Rediscovering What Home is . . .
It could have been another Catcher–in–the–rye story. A couple of weeks without history behind–a short–film of shooting the emotions of an incurable homesick, who gets back home for a vacation. Meeting people who mean a lot to me, going to places I have memories attached, reconsidering the changes I have been undergoing–in the place, the affection for which sometimes seems one of the rare things that stay constant, regardless of all changes it inevitably faces itself. Yeah, I could have written something like that. But it turns out my thoughts, scattered by overwhelming Baltic wind, have been more naturally put into a set of stories–sketches, drawn by the fragile pencil of memory on an old rough yellow paper. You do not ever turn those sketches into pictures–to–hang–on–the–wall–of–your–living–room. No, those are kept carefully between the pages of a favorite book. Sometimes, however, you switch on a melancholic tune, take the book from its shelf–having forgotten about the yellow sheets. And they fall out. . .revealing.
Friends
Kate now lived just five minutes from my old place which was no longer mine. On my way there I could not help stopping for a self–pitying minute of regretting an 'everything changes' law. I stood there for a moment peeping through the gate on the used–to–be–mine courtyard and watching a pale image of myself crossing it just like the way they shoot memory flashbacks in movies. I sped up escaping from this weird feeling.
It was already half a year since Kate moved in with Alex, her boyfriend. They make a perfect couple and looking on them is always soothing like listening to 'All you need is love.' There is a lot tightening me with Kate–the story began back at school when we once decided to make a singing performance together. And it goes on now when however different we have become and however not alike the aims we bear in our minds are–we are always there to remind each other that it is worth waking up every morning even when in the evening it seems it is not–that is precious. As for Alex, he is a great boyfriend–of–your–friend: kind, humorous, he always has been really good to me and we naturally became buddies. So the evenings featured by them both have always been particularly warm.
We had been of course keeping in touch during my year away from Petersburg, and I knew what was going on back here. So I was prepared to see the almost finished reconstruction of their room, their baby–dachshund and her dad's old car he gave her since now Kate was driving. I was also expecting photos–showing, millions of mutual questions, sparks of sincere joy and delicious meals Kate always serves.
The power of excitement speeding up my steps, I approached the gate of Kate's courtyard. The puppy's barking awoke me from wondering in my memories and the next moment I saw Kate running towards me with the dog in one hand. We embraced– and I immediately felt like I saw her just a week ago. First twenty minutes were mostly full of incoherent exclamations of happiness, and then we started discussing plans. First we intended on digging the sunny afternoon in Petersburg's downtown (her apartment is right in the centre, next to a huge cathedral with enormous golden dome and 'stairway to heaven'–the view from the viewing spot there is of a paradise beauty.) But as it often happens, two girlfriends who haven't seen each other for a long time, we ended up in the kitchen consuming all the delicious salads and chatting about simply every–thing.
We smiled sharing joys, frowned sharing concerns. It was especially interesting for me to see my friend to become more. . . home–based. Ever since she started this serious relationship with Alex, her values have shifted towards home–building. And now it seemed she has indeed found her home–regardless of where, it is with the man she loves. I was pleased to see that at least this bond has stayed solid–they have made already four New Year wishes together, the last one blowing a candle which I gave them as a symbolic present.
In her turn Kate wanted to see what has changed and what has not about me. So naturally she was asking what is better 'out there' where I was searching for something, meaning mostly Prague since I live there now, and this question is always hard to answer. . .Being in a sweet haze of memories every Petersburg downtown corner granted me with, I could not think of anything definite to answer. . .
Later in the evening when we were drinking our third or forth cup of tea, the phone rang. Our classmate, a good Kate's friend called–he was just passing her street on his brand new bike and wondered if she was not busy and he could pop in. She said sure he could come, and we were both excited to surprise him with my presence (she did not drop a word about me in the talk).
Nick (the guy's name), so to say, was the one I had very tense relationship back at school–from time to time he just did not give me any credit and that made me upset. Not simply upset–but to tell the truth, it drove me nuts. Meanwhile he was a close friend of two my close ones (Kate being one of them)–so it was difficult just to ease my life and stay away. Besides I have been always the one wanting to prove myself. But later, after we graduated and gathered from time to time in a small company in a cozy Kate's kitchen, things got better between us. Maybe he just looked at me from a different angle or grew up a little. And finally something happened to unite us–we both left Petersburg for a long time, both loving it tremendously and both thinking of not returning back. He went to Germany for some math–research and now was home for only a short time, planning to go back in a week or so. Keeping in touch during the year, we agreed on that our native place does not give us the opportunities we are looking for and something we are dreaming of (though of completely different things, as I could never get satisfied with a swell suburban life of a decent German small town I have once tasted while he perhaps would be ok with that). And now getting back I realized I would be very glad to see him– someone who perfectly understands the 'being–away' feeling.
As he entered the room, Nick smiled sincerely and exclaimed: 'Natashka!' at the sight of me, which in Russian is the deviation of my name you would use when you are Indeed Glad. Then three of us started a bottle of wine, joking, chatting and 'remembering–old–times.' He was so funny with his bike–helmet–off hairstyle–a complete mess on his big head–and with all those stories of how he failed to manage with countless girls, here in Petersburg and back in Germany, all of whom, oh no doubt, desperately wanted him.
Soon Alex was back from job and joined our delightful circle. And it was so intensely joyful–to be among my old friends. I wanted to tell them how great it felt–but you almost never say something deep on how you feel about the people to them unless you are toasting or want to ruin the moment. Alex kept teasing me (how I had been missing that!)–this time accusing me of 'betraying' my mother land. I joked in return–yes, sure, I am a Czech spy! But although the conversation did not seem to become serious, at a certain point Alex asked me the same question I could not find a proper answer for when asked before by Kate. Indeed, what made me move away from the city I love so much and what can Prague offer that is more?
. . .I had different images moving in a rapid kaleidoscope in my mind. First there were narrow cobblestone Prague streets, greeting evening in a smooth rain–whisper and me, gazing at the wet pavements and lights sinking in Vltava River. Then the picture changed into a stunning grayish–lilac sky of Petersburg's May–the month when the city falls in love and cannot afford many dark minutes. But as the kaleidoscope's tiny colored glasses catch lilac and vanilla tints of this infatuated May sky, I am immediately brought to Kampa where lilac–flowers both capture the eye and take my breath away. Yes, this spring month seems to be the best time in both cities. As Hunter S. Thompson writes, describing San Juan in May: 'I know that New York was getting warmer now, that London was wet, that Rome was hot and I was on Vieques, where it was always hot and where New York and London and Rome were just names on a map.' And what about main May P–cities in my life? Petersburg is like a Phoenix born out of the early spring rains–instead of fire. And Prague is turning into Paradise with its fresh sun and people finally not able to wear frowns. May is a smile–injection into both of them–so yeah, others become just Points on the map. . .
Musing upon all of these images, not willing to get out of melting May which was ready to dissolve in June, I murmured something like: 'I love Petersburg. But Prague. . .It has so much to it–I love its grace, its tangled narrow sidewalks. And rain. I love its rain no less than the one here.' That must mean something since rain has always been my city–addiction indicator. 'Oh, I know.'–I glanced at each of three my friends in turn. 'I love digging Prague streets at night. I am not afraid there. I am relaxed.' Even though my friends knew for sure what I was talking about–Petersburg is not a safe place after 11 p.m.–they still did not seem convinced by the sound of these non–patriotic tunes.
The rays of evening Petersburg sun kept reflecting in warm color of green tea in our cups, promising to keep us together for a little bit longer on the intersections of our roving–different–roads. There was almost skin–sensed pause for a moment or two. Then Nick said: 'I know what you mean. You love both but it is like feelings towards a husband and a lover. You love the first one for being safe, protective, caring and for a bunch of other good things this relationship brings. That is how you feel about Prague. The other one–no logic, just passion. That is to Petersburg.' I smiled, everyone smiled in return and the wonderful friends–evening got its half–joking tone back. It was the cake–time– yummy!. .
. . .I gave a thought to what Nick said. In fact, maybe things are the other way around. I will always love Petersburg because it is something unconventional and extremely native. With Prague–I keep falling in love. Day after day I am being inevitably seduced by wet cobblestones, the air so overwhelmed with lilac it almost gets the color, by the blues of evenings dissolving in the pure acoustics of mornings and ancient beauty of the buildings dissolving in the river. Indeed, how can I not be?
LSD ¹
Whenever I listen to some rock'n'roll or blues classics I automatically start swinging–swaying and getting into the perfect state–out–of–mind: of simply dancing through life. Conversely, when I feel that there is something lacking to make this dancing natural and fluent, I switch on some melancholic tune in psychedelic tints. So that I can close my eyes and whirl round to the kaleidoscope sounds of red–pitching–into–green chords, just like in 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.' I admire this drawn girl without sense of reality, digging the skies–her own universe. It is so tempting to take her flying horse for a ride and using the never–failing technique of dreaming to make my own cartoon of everything I miss in the places I love, to make a collage of what is on the surface and what is never caught by an eye that does not care–in pieces of what makes my universe.
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
What makes you feel you miss Petersburg when you are in Prague? Thoughts of water. Channels and rivers are the veins of my northern city. What is more, there is sea. Not the one that you can really swim in (too cold for that), but the one making you attached to the blue infinity spilled over the globe. The smell of a city on water is something exceptional. It is like an early morning of a late summer–cool, jacket–demanding, but freshness–showering and windows–opening. In fact, water areas in a city are like mirrors in a room–you have probably noticed how space is unfolding once these simple tricks are used. It even gets easier to breathe.
That is probably why I love sitting so much on a bench, eyes sunk in green shores
Towering over your head
by the river Vltava in Prague. And what do you miss most about my Bohemian city? Mostly its 'bohemian' character! Prague is so diverse you are getting lost in its colors and the materials it is made of–cobblestones of Stare Mesto, curved– glass of the dancing House and stained–glass on the St.Vitus Cathedral windows. . .I love Prague for being old–Petersburg cannot compete in that having been built just three centuries ago. And I also admire Prague for being European and not arrogant at the same time. It is cozy–you need a short round word to express its atmosphere.
Where rocking–horse people eat marshmallow pies
I like coffee–places of Prague–each of them unique and suiting a certain mood or company. That is what you miss when try to fit in some place in Petersburg. I am not saying that there are no atmospheric cafes back there–that is not true, I can recall 'A Tea Hut' or 'A Stray Dog' for instance–but Starbucks–like brands are still prevailing, sadly enough.
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
I found out there is something else you can miss about the city. You get loads of this something wandering the streets on trams (those being a necessary attribute of Prague–it is lovely–trams–city). You hear it in talks of strangers; you see it in shops signs. That is the language. For me Czech words look like a European deviation from Russian. Czech is warm and old–fashioned in a good sense, like 1950s American blues songs. Maybe my perception will change once I am more confident with this language, but for now quarter–understanding leaves such a mild charm. Once during my two weeks of 'back–to–Petersburg' I thought to hear a woman talking in Czech and her tiny daughter of about three years bubbling something in return. It awoke a smile, just the one you get looking at a baby–duck stumbling nearby its mother's wings at the edge of Vltava.
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. . .²
Rewind.
Sixth Sense
Last year I made one of the few real decisions so far. I decided to step out and explore life. The life out of my fears. Out of my relationships. Out of My City. To the changes–out of the life I had. Usual story, isn't it?
The Magical Mystery Tour started last June when I first went to the controversial land of romantic ideals and prosaic wealth. Here it is important to mention that my experience in Germany was not too long. I spent there three months of early waking and late reading. That was the time of the first attempts to hear the solo tune in the hissing jam of German 'schwabisch' dialect. And even when the melody fell into thousands of half–tone pieces I enjoyed every bit of it, falling in love with the unclear sound. Those were three months of sipping liquored coffee on the train stations where you always feel less lonely, of enjoying big red strawberries in a box for two Euros which seems so cheap (just two–no matter how high the rate is, the simplicity of the number 'two' is bribing), closing eyes at the sight of the orange yolk of sun carelessly spilled over the sky and enjoying the touch of the young grass on the shore of the lake. . .It was the great time of inspiring sunsets I chased and of longing for sunrises I never managed to catch.
After those three months, still feeling the coffee–strawberry aftertaste, I left Germany for Prague, the city where new language challenges were waiting, new tastes have been tried–and yet the same sun blinded–it has just been reflecting in different eyes here.
Wandering around unknown streets I at first wanted to find a place to which I could relate as mine. Some bench with a view on a river maybe–to remind of the Venice–like multitude of channels scattered all over My City. Or a bridge, which could remind of one of the many arcs carelessly thrown over those channels in Petersburg. I thought for some time the famous Karluv most (Charles Bridge) is going to be the one– but you can rarely find solace there to be able to listen to your thoughts. Yeah, I was trying hard as I felt I was in a great need to start my relationship with the city. From time to time I was getting this feeling of home by the Lennon wall–the one that keeps the warmth of hundreds of fingers along with the warmth of thousands of dreams. I also sensed it by the river in the evening, not visible for passer–byes, because golden shining of evening Prague lights was making them blind no worse than the sun did in the daytime.
But after a while I stopped looking for something homey–and the moment I did, it found me itself. Thus, wet cobblestones granted me the same smell as on a typical rainy Petersburg day, even though the streets in my native city are mostly covered with asphalt.
Twelve months–twelve pictures in the calendar of my mind, each page turned too quickly, as it always happens. And all this time no matter what I was doing I had been longing for my native air badly. One hour and a half of soaring in the clouds and the eternity of waiting was over.
When I got there I was trying to get the taste of my memories. The essence of my 'life before' preserved carefully in a gooseberry jam–jar. That is what I was eager to get walking along the streets which never seemed as wide as they did now after the labyrinths of snake–like narrow Mala Strana sidewalks. The fresh wind blowing from the river Neva, deceptive sun playing mind games in the reflexions of golden spires and rusty pipes, and oh all the possible hues of grey and blue and pink and dirty–yellow sky sinking in the water–all of that gives a cracking sensation to your jaw.
I swallowed a whole spoonful. What did that jar save for me? The syroped images of my twentieth birthday for example. They were painted with the same rays that were greeting me now, even warmer. They were featured by the same friendly smiles I came to enjoy, even more frequent. They were brightened by the same May festivity of tulips–even redder. But. . .the memory's sugar made the real feelings gone.
Roving the streets, I hid my mp3–player in the bag and let the sounds of an evening city invade my ears. It was a blues of neon–lights, crashing glass bottles, cars scratching asphalt, cursing in (finally!) native language–more of a Chicago style. As I was going closer to Neva this dirty song was softened into the Delta blues ³ of the river waves hitting the granite calmness of pavements. Still the overall sound was loud like in a club right next to the stage. I almost forgot the feeling, always chilling in the rear of small places in Prague where I love sipping jazz doing some thinking meanwhile. It also felt like turning on the volume to the level when the bass line starts pulsing together with the heart. Thus I was becoming myself a part of his son, sounding like the scratching of an old cassette–player, replayed so many times the tape was almost torn and the sound distorted.
I took my glasses off to see the real colors, even though it did hurt–that was one of the few sunny mornings during my visit. The picture I was facing was drawn by sharp pencils. Horizontal lines of the channels and streets, vertical lines of spires and columns were accurately cutting the new–born summer into pieces of Renaissance–styled mansions, colorless boxes of 'Stalin's houses' (those look like tuberculosis versions of modern Czech panelaky) and traditional Russian onion–shaped church domes. Those images looked like perfect postcards to me. But I missed the whole variety of Monet–like moods. Petersburg is so different when the sun is hiding in a haze and you have something to worry about–then every grey stone is a sad reminder that the light is covered. Or when it is raining like hell but the rain is strong like your hope and fresh like a promising tomorrow. Or at the unique hour of a blushing–pink July dawn when the night has shamelessly skipped its shift and leaves its place for the happiest ever morning. . .But as every impressionism piece of work, these pictures lose their degrading beauty of an ink drop on a damp cloth. Memory turns them into reproductions in an old album.
The touch–and–smell feeling I was searching for, not hiding in the umbrella shelter, was in the rain. Getting my usual rain–caused smile I could not help recalling one pouring memory of my summer three years ago. That night I went for a drink with a friend of mine and his company. I did not know most of them which under other circumstances could make me shy or uncomfortable but at that moment I was too depressed–broken–hearted–tangled to care. The night was crawling, people gradually saying 'bye' one after another–until there were only three of us left. Probably we just wanted to go home the least of all.
We got in a bar with noisy teenagers and creepy music, I cannot imagine now why we ended up there. One of us was a guy already completely drunk by the time–so he just calmly sipped his beer in the corner. Meanwhile me and another girl–she was thirty years old but of a high school–girl looks–were sitting by the window and having hell of a talk. Sometimes it is just more helpful to listen to someone else to burst out what you know yourself rather than to speak yourself.
And I remember heading home on that pale–skied 'white' Petersburg night being full of realizations–and suddenly the sky collapsed. Like a juicy orange torn by thirsty fingers. The warm driving rain was going through me like electricity goes through a tree when hit by a lightening–I felt enlightened. No more questions I had. That is why I always enjoy rain. And Prague and Germany have been sometimes too good–weathered for me. Now, being back, I was inhaling wet summer leafs and feeling drops of another rain sliding down my face–like tears cried for the time passing by so quickly.
So before returning to the pleasant instability of my new life in Prague I have explored My City with all the senses I have. I knew the moment I left a year ago it would never be the same for me. Cities are no less human than people–it moved on with its life and every sense caught the difference.
But maybe it is me who changed more? Maybe now I see things differently and my ear is stuffed with different sound? Leaning on the granite pavement and gazing at the trembling Petersburg mirrored in Neva, I caught myself on a thought–there is one feeling that has not changed. This one you will not find in a scientific article on vital senses, but it is always present, strong or weak. The home–feeling was not preserved in a jam–jar or faded in a reproduction. Yes, nothing stays the same–but I still felt that place is my home. Already distant, when I was there, maybe even partly lost–but the only one that will be truly mine. Forever.
To tell the truth, I am a flying–addict. So planes are always a pleasant extreme addition to a trip. I enjoy the sense of being detached for a while from everything that is left on the ground. Planes are materialization of the home–lacking, not–anywhere–belonging state of mind. I love watching them cutting the sky with their white tales; they leave them behind like memories. Or even more I enjoy passing the airport and watching them taking off and landing every other second–separating and reuniting, erasing distance and tearing thin threads of people's relationships apart. And certainly bringing someone home–as well as pulling someone further from it. . .
I like to think of one of them taking me once home–for a while. Because the city I call my home is like a friend who does not have a phone. You cannot call him no matter how intensely you miss. It is also a type you badly need to be silent with. Once a friend told me that a city is in fact its people and that you can be through with this city at the point when there is nothing new about those people left. I thought it over, in the connection with home. The home city is the one where you are happy to come to be lonely.
It is late in the evening and I close my favorite book. I carefully put it on the shelf. I take the yellow rough sheets and make small paper planes out of them. I put them nearby–in case I want to fly again. My room is still full of Petersburg, but I open the window wide to let Prague in.
1. "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds"
2. The lines in italics are quoted from the song "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" by J.Lennon and P.McCartney. 3. Chicago blues incorporates the harder sound of electric guitars, a more extended palette of notes, and is featured by heavy bass, whereas Delta is acoustic.Ekleksographia:
Wave Two
March, 2010
Fiction
Natasha Kirshina
Natasha Kirshina comes from St. Petersburg, the white–nighted capital of poetry scattered by Baltic wind. There she studied linguistics for several years, inevitably fell in love with Language and, infatuated by German, spent a summer at Bodensee . After several months of gazing at Swiss valleys across the lake and sipping On the Road at railway stations, she changed the scenery again–to cobblestones, bridges and the Lennon Wall of Praha, where she is now, balancing between her International Relations studies and chasing of The Word.