It was a sunny day. I was sitting on a big rock that was somehow placed next to heavy wooden doors of a department store. I was singing a song.
I was 7, and it was a family trip to Leningrad, and it was something. We ate every day in restaurants and cafés with menus. Watch out here, don’t imagine something too fancy. It was 1980 and whatever a child would perceive as outstanding cuisine or ambiance would not be impressive nowadays. Yet it was the moment of my life. I remember high ceilings, white tablecloths and a birch juice in faceted jars.
Well … we weren’t only eating out. Huge golden peacock, giant semi-naked Gods and carpeted red staircase in Hermitage. Fast boat to Petergoh along a wide and grey-blue Neva River. Me, soaked wet after running and dodging along the cobblestone paths with randomly springing jets of water.
I got to know a new word — cathedral (“sobor” in Russian), which betrayingly sounded like “zabor” (fence). Fast learning caused me a prick when I showed off and used “zabor”…
