The days grow shorter already. The day before yesterday was первый снег, "the first snow", and there is an aura of grim expectation in the air - thinner coats have been exchanged for down parkas, headscarves for woolen caps. All the children seem to have magically become little multicolored starfish overnight, now they all toddle about alongside their parents in puffy one-piece snowsuits and boots.
I think I understand now why, although чай (tea) is practically the national drink (here come all the vodka jokes), in the winter it's coffee, coffee, coffee...
I myself prefer tea, black with lemon or green just as it is, but since coming here I find myself drinking coffee mostly for its comforting, filling warmth. In Seattle, there are at least three incredible, independent coffee shops on any given street, and innumerable local coffee roasters that are invariably excellent. The birthplace of Starbucks, the capital of depression and grunge and rain, Seattle is the place to go for the best coffee. Adapting to the coffee here in Peter was something of an unpleasant shock. In general here it's weak and tastes stale. The best coffee I've had thus far comes out of the vending machine at the conservatory which is very cheap and surprisingly good.
Instant coffee was the treat of my childhood, mixed with milk and honey. It's not the same as a strong cold-brew from Caffe Vita on Phinney Ridge back home, but I have rediscovered my old love for it. Perhaps because it stirs up memories of my mother's family, especially my grandmother, who would have a cup of instant coffee with "una tostadita con mantequilla o queso" (a little toast with butter or cheese) every morning for breakfast. I can still smell the toasted bread, taste the melted butter in the sweet coffee I would dunk my bread in, hear my Abuelita flicking invisible crumbs fastidiously off her fingers - a habit I copied and still have to this day.
Though I have recently moved into a new flat which is closer to the conservatory than my last one, I still get up between 6.30 and 7.00 for my 10.00 class. I need time in the morning to reflect, gaze out the window at nothing, sip my coffee, digest the events of the day before.
In a dancer's life, lack of reflection can be as inhibiting as a sore muscle. So many things happen in a rehearsal. There are many corrections and valuable comments given which have the potential to be forgotten, unless taken careful note of and thought about before the next lesson. There are a lot of toes that can be stepped on in the morning warmup class, small moments of drama that arise on a daily basis that need to be processed, forgiven, and resolved within oneself.
So I sip my coffee, and watch the sunrise, and breathe.
Anywhere else, "rising before the sun" would imply getting out of bed at an obscenely early hour. Here, I rise before the sun on a Saturday, make a late breakfast, and am walking on the street to my ballet critic/performance analysis class before the sun rises properly at around 8.30am.
Though the первый снег (first snowfall) didn't stick around long enough to produce good photos, perhaps the next snow we have I will be able to get up "at the crack of dawn" (around 9am on a Sunday...) and nip out for some photos of the Starfish Children heading to church - truly one of the most heartwarming sights I've seen since being here.