I walk carefully, navigating the bumpy ice which
now covers most of the city. In the day snow melts and at night it
freezes. I slip occasionally, but so far not drastically. I reach the
park, or perhaps more accurately it's a promenade, which overlooks the snow covered
river. There are benches and lamps, and it would be romantic if it weren't
for the icy wind.
I reach the church, tall and white with nested golden onions for a
roof. I hear chanting, singing. The gate is open. I go
inside. It's very warm. There are a lot of women in head scarves. Parts
of the walls are covered in icons and gold, very gaudy from a western
perspective but less than a typical Russian church.
 |
The church. |
The chants continue and everyone humbly draws crosses in
the air before their faces. The choir sings. Harmonies. The sound is
crisp. Warm. The tone is heartening. I feel content and happy.
I continue the walk home. The icy wind contrasts with the warmth of the church. I zig-zag
between concrete soviet blocks. It's dark. I pass a big metallic disk
with oil field images impressed on it. I pass a bank lit by neon lights,
and then through more dark icy car parks between flat blocks.
I'm cold. I brought the wrong coat today. Eventually I
reach the shop by my house. I ask about the prices of salmon. The woman
in the shop is helpful and chatty. My accent is evident and she asks my ethnicity. English. A look of
surprise and delight greets me. How is it here for you? A girl, maybe
16, 17, joins the conversation, she's curious about the whole thing, the
world out there. A man joins the conversation. England? The girl asks
if we can chat about what it's like out there. The woman turns out to be
from Tajikistan. I wish her happy Nauryz. Come again, she says with a
genuine smile and warm eyes.
 |
The shop, amongst blocks of apartments. |
I cross the road and dash home, maintaining my care on the
ice. I scare the babushka in front of me as I enter the building behind
her without making a sound. I apologise. We chat. So you live on the
fifth floor? Me too. We struggle to talk while climbing the stairs. Are
you from Tomsk? England. Pause. Confusion. Raised eye brows. Surprise.
Genuine surprise. It doesn't take many questions to reach the topic of
my salary. The staircase is a scary place but now that I've met our
neighbour it's not so scary. The city, too, is less scary that I've chatted to some strangers.