Белые Ночи

White nights are met by rainy mornings
where Petersburg is calm and quiet—
at least in the courtyard outside my window
where the only sound is a single broom sweeping the pavement.
The city pretends that this gray is darkness,
a pause in the perpetual illumination,
and we all sleep a little longer
and move slightly slower when we
finally throw the covers off,
thankful for this sacred moment of shade.

White nights and I am wandering the city
with my newfound soul mate.
We sit on a bench in Летний Сад
and stare at those strolling by,
seeing who can spot the Americans first
[this leads to lengthy conversation about white socks]
and analyzing the romantic relationships
that are developing on the surrounding benches.
Across the path the aging trees are weaving
a pattern of thin black lines that stand out
against the constant twilight.
The grass—almost glowing green—is growing wildly,
trying to catch the trees and never coming close.
And all the while behind the park’s tiny canal
cars are speeding by
rushing to the river for the evening’s holiday.

White nights and I am on top of St. Isaac’s
watching the rain pour onto a distant district.
The tourists are frantically circling the dome
snapping photos that can never hope to frame
this beauty.
Midori and I sit against the rail
and watch the sun walk along the horizon.
She marvels at the European buildings
falling towards each other with age and grace
and I fix my eyes on the naval columns
aglow with flame and glory
on Russia’s Independence Day.
The city creaks and groans and prepares for the rain.

White nights and we move inside St. Isaac’s to wait out the rain.
It is late and the massive church is nearly empty.
One tour group moves slowly from highlight to highlight
and we rest on benches as far from them as possible.
We watch an old woman
(dressed in house clothes complete with
a tattered scarf tied over her hair)
spray the plants on the altar with water,
carefully crossing herself each time.
Midori says her mom wrote that
she never pushed religion upon her
and trusted she’d find it when it was time.
“But Buddhists don’t believe that God is
going to save us,” she adds,
glancing up at the huge golden crucifixion
hanging above us.
We stand to leave
and our footsteps echo off of the marble pillars.

White nights and suddenly everything is sacred.
I walk home slowly along the river
with my now fading soul mate at my side
and the sun trailing behind us.
I am in love
with the bubbly, beautiful girl next to me
who came into my life like an unannounced hurricane
that somehow created order and hope
with screams and laughter and lots of ice cream.
with this city in June
with all the trees overflowing with green
and with the way the sunlight falls
softly onto the buildings at midnight.

So that's the romantic version of the trip that Midori and I just took to Petersburg and Petrozavodsk. In between the beautiful views, we had 6 nights on the train over the course of 10 days, many excellent meals with Ludmila (my former host mother), a quick tour of Duluth's sister city, a run-in with a Santa Claus look alike, and many more memorable moments.