How To Exchange Life In The Capital For A Village By The Sea And Not Regret

A life 2023
How To Exchange Life In The Capital For A Village By The Sea And Not Regret
How To Exchange Life In The Capital For A Village By The Sea And Not Regret

Video: How To Exchange Life In The Capital For A Village By The Sea And Not Regret

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Video: You Will Wish You Watched This Before You Started Using Social Media | The Twisted Truth 2023, January
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Title: a year ago… Bumping into the corners of the nano-studio at Chistye, I'm going to work. Three stops in a light hang, a run over the icy bridge, at one end of which the patriarch is broadcasting from two screens in infernal out-of-sync, and at the other end, the Strelka bar feeds the urbanists with breakfast. “I was late,” the broadcast producer meets me. - And we still have to come up with a survey of the day. I offer a choice: gays, Cossacks, dying builders of the Olympics. " I fall to the table: broadcast until six, and then the daily deadline.

Title: one year later. Shivering, I crush the embers in the fireplace with a poker and pull on my jacket: to get to the city, I have to hurry - the only bus at half past six. One and a half kilometers across the pre-dawn field: a flashlight in one hand, a table knife in the other. The rooster is screaming madly, the sea is raging. At the stop, the minibus flashes, turning around. “Labrit,” the driver opens the door. - Cik ir pulkstenis? Daudz, par daudz. Man ir maz laika! " ("Well, good morning! What time is it, eh? There is a lot of time. And I have little time!"). I fall into a chair: in a day I have to buy firewood, take an extract from the land register, pay for electricity, change the gas cylinder and Skype on business, and in the evening - the deadline in the daily newspaper.

As we can find out with the help of an elementary comparison of situations, the two main things in my life remain unchanged - these are deadlines and the habit of being late (including to them). The rest is the entourage, the decorations, which were worse a year ago (a cramped apartment, a metro at rush hour, Patriarch Kirill), and now they are better (a house on the shore, fog over a field, fresh herring hanged out). It is generally accepted, however, that I courageously and irrevocably changed my fate, rejected the past and said yes to the future, sharply turned my life one hundred and eighty degrees and rushed forward at supersonic. Overload, pressure drops, nausea are not far off - and acquaintances begin to ask sympathetic questions.

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First: "What are you doing there?" The answer leaves them at a loss, because I am doing the same thing as before: I sit at home and overcome the writers block. Only outside the window I have not a trash can with a leaked sign "CAD", but a pine ship forest. Then they ask: "And the TV?" Okay, I'm doing the same thing as in Moscow, minus the TV. For a long time, listening to the opinions of others, I honestly waited for the live broadcast needle to remind of itself with tough breaks, on which everyone who has ever visited it should sit down. But no, for some reason it doesn't prick. Kind people cannot be wrong - and, apparently, a relapse is ahead of me. When he arrives, I promise to write an honest postscript about him (if, of course, I beat my friends - the deadline with the writers block).

"Do I miss my comrades?" - comrades are trying to find out. Honestly, I'm not lying - I began to see my comrades on departure more often. Firstly, Europe is small - and now, before rushing to Berlin, Paris, Amsterdam or Kiev for the weekend, everyone writes to me on Facebook, and I get on a cheap oncoming train to spend three to nine exciting hours there (in European trains can also fight with the writers block). Many of those who in Moscow could not come to visit me for months now fly to these guests. In Warsaw, I take them to Lyupa and Yazhina, show Magda Gessler's gastropubs, Althamer's permanent exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art and discos in a Stalinist skyscraper. In Latvia, I introduce me to foxes stealing my garbage and roe deer gnawing at my fence. On New Year's Eve there was a company of theater artists. One of them, going out into the meadows, raised his head to the sky and gazed at the horizon for a long time, as if something like a shining Buddha had risen above him. "Olya, b ** d, eagle!" he gasped after a moment of awe-inspiring silence.

You have no idea how great I am without oil, without shops, and restaurants, where to undress in the wardrobe

The floundering between urban and rural residences allows me to confidently answer the question of whether I’m bored: I’ll get bored in one - I’m going to another. Moreover, the growing trend towards emigration-light (“in addition to a Moscow apartment, I bought something somewhere”) makes it possible to organize circular friendly tourism. This one has a house in Crimea, the other has a villa in Spain, one has a studio in Kreuzberg, the other has a dacha in Estonia: until you visit everyone and they visit you, that's a year. Polish-Latvian life on Moscow fees is the very episode from the movie "Eurotrip" where American tourists scrape the last seventy-three cents into their pockets, and in the next scene they are brought into the VIP zone of the best nightclub in Skopje … This conventional sloveno-disco is dearer to me than any "Bobo" bar, not to mention this, as it is - in general, what do you have now instead of the place where they took Adrian Brody on vacation with the girls five years ago at the Moscow festival? “How will you survive here after your oil lake? You are a rich big country, and we are a small rural one,”my Polish friend lamented when I arrived at Penderecki’s homeland with suitcases. So, you have no idea how great I am without oil, without a single gallon of oil, without shops that are open twenty-four hours, and restaurants where you have to undress in your wardrobe. With what delight I enter a sports club, reminiscent of a creaking school rocking chair, and a utility store, where towels and bed linen, as in Soviet childhood, need to be pierced in different departments - only, unlike childhood, the saleswomen smile and are afraid of English, and suddenly rejoice Russian, saying "Dobzhe, dobzhe" or "Labi, labi".

When are you coming back, Moscow arranges art bombardment for you

Therefore, the most comical question of the above is "When will you be back?" They ask him with meaning, looking into his eyes, suspecting of coquetry - she left so that we could ask, right? I was recently in Moscow for a month and a half - waiting for documents. Forty-five days of celebration, daily theater, the best lodging from Karetny to Savvinskaya, night tantrums with shouts of "What do you have besides your Chanel?", Sorokin's secret readings, breakfasts with soup in friendly squats, rallies and gatherings, former beloved colleagues who, having done a big media-oppositional cause, wearily look at you through a glass of prosecco in a bar on "Red October". When you return, Moscow arranges for you an art-bombardment from what, it seems to it, it did not give you enough. Taxi drivers are smart and kind, friends are inconsolable, and former and future employers propose projects of the century, each of which is much more miraculous than the other. "When will you be back?" - asks Moscow.

And then you hang out in front of her a piece of paper with an old caricature from the New Yorker, on which a man leafs through a diary and timidly says to the telephone receiver: “What about never? Is never good for you?"

The photo: coverphoto via Shutterstock

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