Summer fun
As previously mentioned, the first day of school in Russia was September 1st, and the last day was May 31st. The 3 months between those dates were off, and I mean, truly off: no silliness like summer jobs, or summer school, or summer internship to ruin the unabashed pure freedom of summer. We were from a big city, and summer in a big city was an amazing time because as if by magic, after May 31st, the city would get hot, fragrantly scented by poplar trees, dusty with the fuzz off their branches, and, eventually, empty out. Being there felt really strange, like being left behind in a vacant building...
I'd say that kids from good families never spent the summer in the city. They would go away to the black sea, or dacha, or, in the worst case scenario, pioneer camp (like scout camp). [I never went to pioneer camp!] I'd even say that because there were 3 whole months, more than 1 vacation trip would be undertaken. I went to the Black Sea, on a tour of Ukraine, and to a small lake town in Latvia all in one summer, with no more than a couple of days in the city inbetween. Some parents would even pull their kids out a few days early, to make whatever flight or trip was in the works.
One year, we had no plans, and I ended up in the city until June 7th, which was really unthinkable. I even wrote in my diary: can't believe it's the 7th and I'm still here! *outrage, outrage*
Fast forward a few decades. Okay, two and a half decades. Just like scooping ice cream in a certain special way, I still continue to think of one year as the period of time between two summers, and the summer as a time when one should do no work. Fat chance, though, around here, with a pathetic 2 weeks of vacation alotted to dutiful Protestant work ethic followers. We put our best effort forward, however. This resulted in us going away 2 weekends in a row, with the 5 day workweek inbetween reduced to a period of time between 2 minivacations, and rendered basically pointless.
Now, Labor day come and gone, another year starts, until the next summer.
Trip #1 was to Truro, down the Cape, and I say that with the most New England accent I can muster. Truro has a special place in my heart. Some time back, we accidentally rented a house there for a week; mom, grandma, myself and my step brother. The house had a name - The Hutch - was on top of a dune, above a semi private white and blue beach and surrounded by such an air of calm, that even grandma, a natural fusser, was relaxing, maybe for the first time in her life ever? For some reason, really sweet positive memories from that time, somewhat like the ones from even earlier, from the Black Sea and Latvia that I treasure dearly, and don't want to let go.
My favorite Cape Cod beach, Marconi. White sand, sand dunes, deserted grounds... Thoughtful strolls, candid photos...
Footsteps in the sand, optimist or pessimist, sands of time - cliche of your choice for this pseudo artsy fartsy pic.
Blue. The bluest blue. And a little red. A very lonely little red.
The cottage, run by a couple of friendly ladies, one of whom makes the most kickass coffee cake ever, where we stayed upstairs under a slanted Cape House roof.
Laziness, idleness, messy hair, no makeup and 100% relaxation.
I'd say that kids from good families never spent the summer in the city. They would go away to the black sea, or dacha, or, in the worst case scenario, pioneer camp (like scout camp). [I never went to pioneer camp!] I'd even say that because there were 3 whole months, more than 1 vacation trip would be undertaken. I went to the Black Sea, on a tour of Ukraine, and to a small lake town in Latvia all in one summer, with no more than a couple of days in the city inbetween. Some parents would even pull their kids out a few days early, to make whatever flight or trip was in the works.
One year, we had no plans, and I ended up in the city until June 7th, which was really unthinkable. I even wrote in my diary: can't believe it's the 7th and I'm still here! *outrage, outrage*
Fast forward a few decades. Okay, two and a half decades. Just like scooping ice cream in a certain special way, I still continue to think of one year as the period of time between two summers, and the summer as a time when one should do no work. Fat chance, though, around here, with a pathetic 2 weeks of vacation alotted to dutiful Protestant work ethic followers. We put our best effort forward, however. This resulted in us going away 2 weekends in a row, with the 5 day workweek inbetween reduced to a period of time between 2 minivacations, and rendered basically pointless.
Now, Labor day come and gone, another year starts, until the next summer.
Trip #1 was to Truro, down the Cape, and I say that with the most New England accent I can muster. Truro has a special place in my heart. Some time back, we accidentally rented a house there for a week; mom, grandma, myself and my step brother. The house had a name - The Hutch - was on top of a dune, above a semi private white and blue beach and surrounded by such an air of calm, that even grandma, a natural fusser, was relaxing, maybe for the first time in her life ever? For some reason, really sweet positive memories from that time, somewhat like the ones from even earlier, from the Black Sea and Latvia that I treasure dearly, and don't want to let go.
My favorite Cape Cod beach, Marconi. White sand, sand dunes, deserted grounds... Thoughtful strolls, candid photos...
Footsteps in the sand, optimist or pessimist, sands of time - cliche of your choice for this pseudo artsy fartsy pic.
Blue. The bluest blue. And a little red. A very lonely little red.
The cottage, run by a couple of friendly ladies, one of whom makes the most kickass coffee cake ever, where we stayed upstairs under a slanted Cape House roof.
Laziness, idleness, messy hair, no makeup and 100% relaxation.
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