However it’s a warm evening at home I feel some swinging. I do still remember red trams and luck of snow, I do still endure remains of road feelings. The gradual process of refining people, every step leaves fewer and fewer ones who have an idea of the place we went from. To begin with the straight flight to Riga than transfer to Moscow and train to Moscow as a town, then train to the hometown. And the process remains less and less foreign languages and more local ones. Gradually it was stopping to be OK to read The Economist (in paper version) and become rather odd. I did still talk freely in Russian like people around didn’t get. But they actually got everything. There was no fresh air and former great pastry or coffee. The instant one in the traditional glasses and cheap cakes. In full silence I joyfully read a few political articles. Like there was nothing to do or to mull over. Like everything is easy. No problems, no thoughts, no woe on Moscow environment and perspective of study, no emptiness of local town. Nothing but a memory of naturally beautiful town, it’s poetry and air. Which my lungs got as vital remedy.
