Walking home from work

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.