A Farewell to Petersburg

*This is a poem written by my bud, Ethan, on leaving St. Petersburg.  He's pretty awesome and a great writer (even though he will try to tell you otherwise).  I couldn't help but repost because, even if these are not my words, they are the words of my heart.  

Goodbye, Lenin

I.

I don’t want to leave, but I’ll go all the same

This place has too many memories

The park where you wasted hours

The bridge where you fell in love

The room where you caved in

The street corner where…never mind

Was it all a dream?

Does morning make it a nightmare?

There are days when I wake up in a cold sweat

And days when I could kiss the sky

Or are they the same?

Sometimes it’s hard to tell

No, no – that sounds worse than it is

Poetry makes things so ambiguous

Searching for meaning, for closure

When maybe it just was.

II.

Sitting in class, the hours tick by

One step closer, closer

What have I gotten myself into?

The professor is speaking in tongues

And I can’t stop staring at this page

The semester is lost, if it all ends here

But the deed is done

Joseph and Mary fly into Egypt

I close my eyes and step into the city

To quote: the city steps right back to me

The Neva heaves a Petersburg sigh

People pass by in an unkempt tide

Saints and sailors

Maude and maiden

Friend and foe

A human haze.

III.

It’s hard to write about the good times

They crumble away into bits and pieces

Remember the bar, and the fire, and the goat;

The bottles, the brass, and the moose;

A church, a shot and a metro stop;

A pancake, a punk and a party.

Too much, too fast

Get out into the street

A post-ordeal silence settles over the city

Or, as I like to call it, Sunday

Recharge and rewind

Then do it again:

A toast to our lives

A walk with a friend

A kiss with a what-have-you

A moment shared, but brief.

IV.

I could go on

The seconds fly by through faded glass

Or better yet, through a biting frost

Because there was plenty of that, wasn’t there?

But we toughed it out

Kept our chins up, and other clichés

We walk by the tourists

And what have they earned?

We forced the days longer

Until the sun had to catch up

And we took the shots from every direction

From old ladies and shop clerks and each other

But who cares if we get a little roughed up

Just battle scars and trophies

This city is mine

Or it was, for a while.

V.

Sing along with the tune on the radio

And think of us fondly

A few words from time to time

That’s really all we can ask

Forgive the spots and stains

Substitute the whole for the part

In that strange moment when, despite it all

We see each other again

See, it’s not a small world

There are just narrow paths we take

For better or for worse, we were together

In love with and loved by a city

We appreciate what we have

And then it’s gone

Nothing surprises us in Petersburg

And nothing makes us tremble back home.

до свидания, питер (but only for a little while).

This morning I had to say bye to the city I've grown to love so much.  Of course it was really tough, by I keep reminding myself that I get to go back for a few days at the end of July (слава богу!).  I really don't have the words to express my feelings about St. Pete and the wonderful people that have been a part of my life for the past four and a half months.  I think a part of me will always be there.  Russia has a way of working itself into your soul, and for better or for worse she changes you, breaks you, and makes you stronger and more aware.  I know that I will never be able to do justice to Russia with my words, but I'll keep fumbling along.  I'm so grateful for the amazing kids that have trudged through this semester with me.  Even though no one at home will ever be able to understand my experience fully, I'm lucky to have friends that understand without having to utter a word.  So off to Belarus and to new adventures I go.  I'll only be gone a little while, Питер, but until then: до свидания, город мой.  Спасибо за все.  я тебя люблю и буду скучать по тебе очень.  Но я вернусь и скоро.    ♥Лиза

escalatoring.

St. Pete lays claim to the deepest metros in the world, which equals the longest metro escalators.  Needless to say I, therefore, spend a lot of time riding these escalators.  In the hustle and bustle of the commute and the crowds pushing and hurrying along, there is a pause of about five minutes to stand still.  The code for escalator riding is strict and understood.  On a down-escalator the right side is for standing and the left side is for running.  Standing on the left side will result in being pushed down or run over by those commuters who are in a real hurry.  On an up-escalator standing on the right or left side is acceptable.  Very few people have the will or the physical fitness to actually climb the whole way up, even if they are in a hurry.  Escalators also equal prime people-watching time.  Five full minutes of staring at all the passersby, many of whom take up the favorite escalator pastime of making out.  PDA is very public in Russia, and people do not let any opportunity for more kissing pass them by.  I have come to love riding these escalators.  They force me to slowdown and just be for a few minutes.  They give me a sense of calm.  And most importantly the faces that pass me by remind me of who Russia is.  I'm really gonna miss 'em when I'm gone.

proof/pushkin collection/an ode to a literary great on his birthday.

С днем рождения, Пушкин!  Happy birthday to you.  To honor this, the anniversary of your birth, I want to share with the world (or at least my blog readers) that you are, indeed, viewed as the equivalent of god in Russia.  No writer is memorialized or internalized like you.  Everyone and everything tries to stake a claim in your greatness.  It is hard to go anywhere in this city without seeing statues of you, hearing reference to your name, or finding plaques that read, "Pushkin lived here" or "Pushkin sat here" or "Pushkin touched this" (okay, maybe the latter is a bit of an exaggeration).  You inspired this country with your words and the way you brought elevated language and poetic thoughts down to the people.  In so many ways, you are the voice of Russia.  You are the forger of modern Russian literature.   Your fairy tales are imbedded into the hearts of children who then carry them onto the next generation.  Your verses are engrained into the memories of schoolchildren.  Your poems give words to so much that cannot be explained.  You speak to the Russian soul.  You are a storyteller.  You are eternal.  

Я вас любил.../I loved you once...

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может 

В душе моей угасла не совсем; 

Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит; 

Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.

 Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно, 

То робостью, то ревностью томим; 

Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно, 

Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet 

To die down thoroughly within my soul; 

But let it not dismay you any longer; 

I have no wish to cause you any sorrow. 

I loved you wordlessly, without a hope, 

By shyness tortured, or by jealousy. 

I loved you with such tenderness and candor 

And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

Алексaндр Сергeевич Пyшкин
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin