Against the harshness and length of the
winter there is the joy of the Russian summer. Spring is a mere formality, a
short strange time of bright sun and high pressure amidst the caked up snow and
mud, then summer comes in a demented tropical profusion. Already by May's end
the trees are in full leaf, blossom floats on the air everywhere and the
insects are out in biting , nipping all action mode. Moscow becomes a green
city almost overnight. The girls go from being swaddled in bundles of fur to
dressing so lightly that dark glasses are mandatory. And there's an energy that
comes to the place too, a sort of madness as people start getting drunk and
dancing and falling over on the streets. By the end of the summer it will look
like a war zone dotted with corpses and walking wounded, but at this early
stage it is still possible to rejoice in it all.
Soon all right thinking folks will leave
the city itself and go live in the dachas to grow vegetables and children and
men will be left alone in city flats to get drunk and begin affairs, well not
just men.
Each winter it gets harder to stomach the
grimness: each summer is more of a celebration.
I take my son to the park to ride his
bicycle while I sit and read, and even at 9 am it is hard to find a bench that
doesn't have someone laying down sleeping off a nights revels.
Rejoice
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