Saint-Peter's note, part 1
"I was stroke by lightning, that is how it felt.
I was having my student meal in of the canteens linked into one chain for the working class, students, tourists. Actually, their customers were reminding a big garden with every sort of fruits being raised together regardless of their origins: noble Argentinian cherry or peasant apple, all together.
Because I would see there every time tons of fancy-dressed people and would think: probably, saving money for another fancy dress. Then, I would finish my rice. The food was cheap but fresh and sort of home-made. The interior used to be a rough reference to the Soviet Union era, promoting its accessibility to the target audience, simple people with simple standards. With time, it was slowly transformed into a clean, decent place for having a proper not expensive meal and even a date when you wouldn't have enough student money for McDonald's. Depending on the area, you would meet there either people drunk from dusk till dawn with no chance to see the light (too busy), or those fancy-dressed people I was saying about. That is how loyal to all sorts of customers the chain was. Unconsciously, I guess, no intentions to be that open-minded. Open-doored, actually.
Having my lunch there that day, I would expect my favorite Russian actor to come in (it is not that unusual in Saint-Petersburg, I would regularly hear the stories about my friends running into the stars of different sizes; I myself was once breathing down the neck of one actor when queuing in the supermarket). He is huge there. But I was open to any possibility.
I caught a view of a former manager of the high-class cafe where I was working as a waitress. In the very center of Saint-Petersburg, in one of the most famous buildings in the history of the city, second floor, an incredible view on the main prospect of the city and the Kazan Cathedral. I remember people waiting for hours just to have a sip of something at the window's tables, take a photo and leave. I would be thinking: what a stupid crowd! (said it to myself, poor but enthusiastic in Rome's cafeterias). So the level of service we were trained to provide was really high. And almost 6 years later, I see my strict, at times bitchy but always top-notch looking and speaking manager cleaning the tables at the canteen's place. No, she wasn't a steward there. She was in the jacket and all, I had a feeling she was a manager there as well and was helping out stuff. But I couldn't stop thinking of circumstances that led her to this place from the constant striving for the illusion of beauty and comfort our tourists would buy back then.
When I quit that place, some time ago I learned that she also left for some finesse bar. And then it was it.
And now it was on again. Because I couldn't wrap my mind about it. She wouldn't fit at all. Her eyes were too ambitious back at the time we were colleagues. They were absent when I would peek at her now. I felt sorry for her and scared for myself. Huh, our mind is an odd thing.
I began contemplating on what was her choice in being there and what was just life hardships she bravely was dealing with that way. Is there such a thing as our choice? If yes, could some of the wise people provide with the clear-cut instructions on how to use it? No? Okay. I always knew life is not fair.
And what I realized later is that she somehow was that measure stick to what I had done to be sitting there that moment and feeling depressed, exhausted, overwhelmed, conflicted, lost, tremendously lonesome but liberated, young, self-sufficient and with a strong feeling that all this time I was doing an enormously difficult but right thing: I was trying to be myself at any price and under circumstances. Price has been always high, circumstances can't stop amusing me with diverse form, shape, and twisted flow. "
I was having my student meal in of the canteens linked into one chain for the working class, students, tourists. Actually, their customers were reminding a big garden with every sort of fruits being raised together regardless of their origins: noble Argentinian cherry or peasant apple, all together.
Because I would see there every time tons of fancy-dressed people and would think: probably, saving money for another fancy dress. Then, I would finish my rice. The food was cheap but fresh and sort of home-made. The interior used to be a rough reference to the Soviet Union era, promoting its accessibility to the target audience, simple people with simple standards. With time, it was slowly transformed into a clean, decent place for having a proper not expensive meal and even a date when you wouldn't have enough student money for McDonald's. Depending on the area, you would meet there either people drunk from dusk till dawn with no chance to see the light (too busy), or those fancy-dressed people I was saying about. That is how loyal to all sorts of customers the chain was. Unconsciously, I guess, no intentions to be that open-minded. Open-doored, actually.
Having my lunch there that day, I would expect my favorite Russian actor to come in (it is not that unusual in Saint-Petersburg, I would regularly hear the stories about my friends running into the stars of different sizes; I myself was once breathing down the neck of one actor when queuing in the supermarket). He is huge there. But I was open to any possibility.
I caught a view of a former manager of the high-class cafe where I was working as a waitress. In the very center of Saint-Petersburg, in one of the most famous buildings in the history of the city, second floor, an incredible view on the main prospect of the city and the Kazan Cathedral. I remember people waiting for hours just to have a sip of something at the window's tables, take a photo and leave. I would be thinking: what a stupid crowd! (said it to myself, poor but enthusiastic in Rome's cafeterias). So the level of service we were trained to provide was really high. And almost 6 years later, I see my strict, at times bitchy but always top-notch looking and speaking manager cleaning the tables at the canteen's place. No, she wasn't a steward there. She was in the jacket and all, I had a feeling she was a manager there as well and was helping out stuff. But I couldn't stop thinking of circumstances that led her to this place from the constant striving for the illusion of beauty and comfort our tourists would buy back then.
When I quit that place, some time ago I learned that she also left for some finesse bar. And then it was it.
And now it was on again. Because I couldn't wrap my mind about it. She wouldn't fit at all. Her eyes were too ambitious back at the time we were colleagues. They were absent when I would peek at her now. I felt sorry for her and scared for myself. Huh, our mind is an odd thing.
I began contemplating on what was her choice in being there and what was just life hardships she bravely was dealing with that way. Is there such a thing as our choice? If yes, could some of the wise people provide with the clear-cut instructions on how to use it? No? Okay. I always knew life is not fair.
And what I realized later is that she somehow was that measure stick to what I had done to be sitting there that moment and feeling depressed, exhausted, overwhelmed, conflicted, lost, tremendously lonesome but liberated, young, self-sufficient and with a strong feeling that all this time I was doing an enormously difficult but right thing: I was trying to be myself at any price and under circumstances. Price has been always high, circumstances can't stop amusing me with diverse form, shape, and twisted flow. "
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