At the request of several people, I will start a series of small moments of everyday life for me. I have told a few people this, but sometimes when I'm bored, I like to narrate whatever's going on at the moment...the weird part is that it's usually in the voice of Jim Dale , or David Attenborough. Keep in mind, these short blips are naturally quite boring, but maybe a boring post is better than none at all?
It's night now. This is the real Moscow. The Moscow that lives, breaths, moves...and never, ever sleeps. But tonight there are no big parties for me, no screaming across a room just to have a conversation. No, tonight I made plans to meet friends for pie at a restaurant across the city. As I leave my English lesson my ipod is turned on, and I listen to an economist article about the fighting in Syria. I arrive a bit late to pie, but then again, it's never late for pie. We stay late into the evening, going back and forth between talking about the future, joking about pretty much everything, bringing the nerds out of all of us, and some talk of cats (at this point, my interest quickly switched from the conversation to what was left of the cranberry pie in front of me).
The fog is so dense, I can feel drops of water collecting on my face as I briskly walk home from the metro. As I pass those homey golden arches separating the metro from my apartment, I crane my neck to take in the huge structure that is my building. It's a 26 story complex, in a retro 80's soviet style in and out. Due to the fog, the top 10 floors aren't visible save the radio towers jutting from the top, warning incoming flights to the Domodedovo airport to steer clear.
I pull the headphones out of my ears - they're starting to hurt. I've had them in for the past hour on the metro.The sounds of Moscow rush at me in a wave. Cars whizzing by, the dull rumble of the now distant metro, the hum of people rushing by...after the first moment, these screeching sounds become dull, and I grow accustomed. These sounds are always there, white noise. Like an out of tuned radio, or a tv on channel 99.
As I walk into my apartment, I'm stopped by a portly porter...there are several of them, but they are always well proportioned, and always sure to great me with that classic Russian smile. "Молодой человек, пропуск есть? (young man, do you have a pass?)," he asks. Naturally, he knows I have an entry pass; I've lived here for a year and a half. But rules enjoy a certain godly reverence here, and I know this, so I comply.
It's night now. This is the real Moscow. The Moscow that lives, breaths, moves...and never, ever sleeps. But tonight there are no big parties for me, no screaming across a room just to have a conversation. No, tonight I made plans to meet friends for pie at a restaurant across the city. As I leave my English lesson my ipod is turned on, and I listen to an economist article about the fighting in Syria. I arrive a bit late to pie, but then again, it's never late for pie. We stay late into the evening, going back and forth between talking about the future, joking about pretty much everything, bringing the nerds out of all of us, and some talk of cats (at this point, my interest quickly switched from the conversation to what was left of the cranberry pie in front of me).
The fog is so dense, I can feel drops of water collecting on my face as I briskly walk home from the metro. As I pass those homey golden arches separating the metro from my apartment, I crane my neck to take in the huge structure that is my building. It's a 26 story complex, in a retro 80's soviet style in and out. Due to the fog, the top 10 floors aren't visible save the radio towers jutting from the top, warning incoming flights to the Domodedovo airport to steer clear.
I pull the headphones out of my ears - they're starting to hurt. I've had them in for the past hour on the metro.The sounds of Moscow rush at me in a wave. Cars whizzing by, the dull rumble of the now distant metro, the hum of people rushing by...after the first moment, these screeching sounds become dull, and I grow accustomed. These sounds are always there, white noise. Like an out of tuned radio, or a tv on channel 99.
As I walk into my apartment, I'm stopped by a portly porter...there are several of them, but they are always well proportioned, and always sure to great me with that classic Russian smile. "Молодой человек, пропуск есть? (young man, do you have a pass?)," he asks. Naturally, he knows I have an entry pass; I've lived here for a year and a half. But rules enjoy a certain godly reverence here, and I know this, so I comply.
I like posts like this because it gives me a glimpse into your life, which normally feels like a giant mystery to me. We miss you, Bryce, and think of you often with envy. Now don't screw it up.
ReplyDeleteI hope you're also doing Piglett's voice in your narrations.
ReplyDelete