
I have, since my trip to Russia, had many an opportunity to mull over my trip to the former Soviet Union. I think of my different experiences, what lessons I learned, how my perspective on both Russia and my own nation have changed. However, of all the things I saw and did, one night stands out in my mind on such nights.
It was our first night in St. Petersburg, and Kelly Jo and I had decided to have a smoke. However, my roommate didn't smoke and neither did Kelly's (we weren't allowed to smoke anywhere inside except our rooms). Rather than force our respective roomies to breathe our second-hand smoke, we opted to step outside for a quick Nat Sherman (the best cigarette made, in my opinion).
The security guard for our hotel sat in his booth at the bottom of the stairs, in the lobby, and as we passed by we made vague hand-motions meaning we intended to step outside. His immediate response was to look horrified and communicate emphatically that we could not, under any circumstances, go outside. In broken English he explained that the city was very dangerous at night, and in fact it was illegal to be outside without a police officer after 9pm. It was at this time 9:30.
We managed to convey our intentions of only going outside for a smoke, being back in 5 minutes or less. We even promised to stand at the doorway, so that he could see us at all times from inside. Finally, he agreed and we stepped into the bitter night air.
We shivered, folding in on ourselves in an effort to stay warm, lighting our cigarettes and taking quick, hard drags from our cigarettes as we hurried to meet our deadline of 5 minutes (Nats are fine cigs, but take a little time to smoke). Old women scurried past, heads down as if they were transfixed upon some vitally important message written on the toes of their shoes. One car passed, crammed with people, sputtering quickly down the street before us. The canal, frozen solid, was littered with trash dumped onto the ice (to be carred out to sea after the spring thaw, I can only assume). The night sucked away any light around us, and we soon realized that we were standing on a street corner in a very dangerous, very deserted (or so it seemed) city, in which we did not speak the language. We shotgunned our cigarettes and clamored back inside, hitting the stairs just as the mind-blowing nicotine rush of a fast Nat Sherman hit us with a wallop. Crawling (literally) up the stairs, we made it to my room and half-fell, half-sat on the bed, groaning.
The point of all this is: that was the single best moment of my entire life. Have I ever felt so alive as I did when Kelly Jo said, "Shit, man, we're standing on a street corner in damn St. Petersburg, Russia, at 9:30 at night?" The answer is, no. I haven't. Of all the impressions I have left of Russia, the single one which will last a lifetime is that, in twenty short years of living, that one cigarette smoked at Kelly's side has been the experience which made me feel the absolute most alive of my life.
The reason why is simple, I think. We never value being alive, and experiencing life, so much as we do when that life is in danger. The tiniest details become vibrantly sensual, the most fleeting thoughts consume our minds. In short, I lived because I was afraid of not living. Such is the irony of being human.
*shrug*
MGW
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Michael G. Williams