The Lady with the Golden Locks

by Topaz Hooper (United States of America)

Making a local connection Russia

The warm and lightly humid air touched my face as I hustled down a busy St. Petersburg street. The city was so big, much bigger than I had thought when I had first arrived. It was easy to get lost and wander down the wrong angular side street. I had two hours to make it to the St. Petersburg International Airport before I would miss my flight to Sochi. The streets were so confusing. I struggled to navigate between Google Maps and the Cyrillic street signs. At a busy intersection, I held my phone close to my delicate chocolate face staring hard as I read the details. I looked up to cross the street and boom. My phone hit the ground. I begrudgingly looked from left to right to find the source of this distraction, it was a stranger who had crossed the street in a hurry and accidentally bumped into me. In a rushed apology, his face expressed remorse as he turned and continued toward the next intersection. I huffed and picked up my phone. In the back of my left ear, I heard a voice. “Where are you from?” The voice emerged in a Russian-American accent. I turned around and saw a tall, broad shouldered man standing in an athletic t-shirt, jean shorts and a backpack. I replied, “Я американка”. I am an American. He blinked unexpectedly and with a smirk of disbelief, he exclaimed, “You speak Russian?”. “да”, I replied. He shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t be an American. I’ve been to America and there’s not many people who look like you.” My chocolate-cinnamon skin glistened in the St. Petersburg sun. My brown eyes expressing a flash of humor and annoyance. “Of course I’m American,” I announced, “America is full of all sorts of people. Maybe you should revisit it sometime.” I gathered myself to walkaway when he jolted in front of me and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just surprised.” I waited with impatience as he tried his best to make amends. “How long have you been in Russia,” he continued. “One week in St. Petersburg and now, I am on my way to Sochi,” I replied. “Wow, you’re really going places. Have you seen much of St. Petersburg?” he asked. “Not too much,” I shared. “Would you like to see the best view in St. Petersburg?” he posed. Amused, I thought to myself, running through all of the scenarios of what could happen if I got kidnapped in Russia. I thought about it and found no conclusive reason to deny his request. After all, he was tall, handsome and local. I accepted and we made our way down Невский проспект, one of the biggest streets in St. Petersburg. We laughed and exchanged stories of America, finding points of connection that lead us back to Colorado. “You’re from Colorado?” he asked. “Yes, I was born there. I lived there all my life,” I replied. “No way, I did a study abroad there in high school. I loved every minute.” We continued until we reached the steps of the St. Isaac Cathedral. He offered to pay my ticket to see the top, and I accepted. We climbed what felt like thousands of steps until we reached the top balcony of the cathedral. He was right, it was the best view in St. Petersburg. He leaned against the railing as I took photos of the scenery. He couldn't stop staring at me. I noticed and asked if there was something on my face. He laughed and replied “No. I just can’t stop looking at your beautiful hair in the sunlight. It’s like golden threads that glisten in the sun.” If my brown skin weren’t so deep in hue, he would have noticed me blushing. He smiled at my reaction and turned to face the city. We both stared out into the city of romance, full of bridges crossing rivers, ancient cathedrals and bustling streets. Before too long, I looked at my watch. I had one hour to get to the airport. I looked up at him with concern, he understood and said, “I’ll call you a taxi.”