The Russian word for Sunday is "Воскресенье", or "Resurrection". Rather than being dubbed a day of rest, as in other Slavic languages, here this is called a day of rebirth - a time to renew oneself in preparation for the days ahead.
The weather is moody, blue skies turning grey, a light rain threatening at any moment, with sudden rays of sun breaking through now and then. I worried that my outing would be cut short by a few droplets that landed around me as I walked through Palace Square, but it stayed relatively clear as I wove my way through tourists and locals, all visiting this majestic place on a slightly wet Sunday.
A woman came up to me and said, "Девушка, пожалуйста." ("Girl, please.") and a few other words in Russian, holding out her camera to me, showing me where to press the shutter on the cracked screen. There are no words for Miss, Ms, Mrs, Mr, Ma'am, or Sir, in Russian, and so women under the age of 45 are "girl" and men under the age of 30 are "boy", otherwise they are "woman" and "man". As rude as this sounds to English speakers, culturally in Russia it is considered perfectly acceptable and not at all untoward. I was quite taken aback when she spoke to me, my automatic response of "Я не говоpю по-pусски." ("I don't speak Russian.") at the ready, muscles tensed to flee the scene. But then I changed my mind. I nodded curtly, and accepted the phone from her. She walked about twenty paces in front of me, I took the photo, and she retrieved her phone with a quick, "Спасибо!" ("Thanks!") to which I answered a half-whispered, "Пожалуйста." ("You're welcome.").
This exchange was oddly thrilling. No matter how brief it was, it was one of my first Russian conversations in the 'real world'. It made me smile to myself as I continued walking and taking more photos. One thing I've noticed about the locals here in St Petersburg, I don't know if it's the same all over Russia or not, is that while they are often animated when speaking with friends or close colleagues, when they speak to strangers they seem almost shy. They speak in near whispers, muttering under their breath more often than not. On the one hand this makes it difficult for me to catch the few Russian words I know, but on the other hand I have discovered that I can easily pass for being a local Russian-speaker if I merely mimic their hushed tones. "Spaciba" becomes a very quiet "p'ay'siba" and nobody looks up or notices anything out of the ordinary. It reminds me of one of James Herriot's stories, the was one where he says one may easily disguise a slurring tongue by whispering, while drunk.
There are always men and women dressed in costumes strolling through Palace Square, posing for photos with tourists for a fee. Despite the fact that it's all fake, or perhaps because of the artificiality of the costumes, it seems to fit here. I find it almost charming.
The juxtaposition of the old and the new, the gritty and the flamboyant, the permanent and the plastic, are themes I encounter here again and again, and am beginning to associate with Petersburg.