As a Sunday-afternoon poet when the spirit is on me, I've been interested in poetry all my life, and consequently have read a lot of it. With my lifelong interest in Russia, it goes without saying that I have read a great deal of Russian poetry (in translation, of course) and have become familiar with some of Russia's famous poets.
Many years ago, oh, when I was in college I guess, a copy of a book called From Desire To Desire by Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko fell into my hands. (I have no idea what its title in Russian was.) The poems were mainly about love, every poet's favorite subject, but one that leaped out at me in particular was a poem entitled The Heat In Rome. Evidently Yevtushenko found himself in Rome during the summer. (I've always wanted to visit Rome, but NOT during the summer.)
In this poem, Yevtushenko rhapsodizes about how miserable Rome is in summertime, the heat and humidity of the city eventually prompting him to imagine a mass striptease, with everyone jumping naked into the Po River. Yevtushenko was born in a spot called Zima Junction, in Siberia. "Zima" means "winter" in Russian, and I can just imagine, with his background, how violently Yevgeny Yevtushenko's constitution must have reacted to "the heat in Rome."
I know how he feels. Only I'm not in Rome. I'm in Moscow.
Moscow? Yes. There is a widely-held perception in the west that the former Soviet Union is cold all the time. When I arrived in Kiev, Ukraine three weeks ago on my way to Moscow, my friends on Facebook were all asking me if it was cold there. In point of fact, it was not. It's springtime, and even the former USSR can get quite warm in spring. In summer it's worse. Really. Read your Tolstoy. There are scenes in both War & Peace and The Cossacks where the soldiers are plagued by heat and mosquitoes. It happens here, believe me, despite the fact that most Americans can not envision Moscow as anything but buried in snow. In all honesty, Moscow is buried in snow for nearly six months of the year. But for the rest of the year ... well, just make sure you have some shorts, some T-shirts and some sunscreen available. You might need them. Moscow has very long days in the late spring and early summer, and when you're looking at 20 hours of sunlight, you just might be looking at 20 hours of sun.
It was has been uncomfortably warm in Moscow this week. I know, I'm here. The heat isn't unbearable by itself -- it's not 90 degrees (yet.) The problem is, it's sultry. Moscow's humidity isn't as bad as that of New Orleans, Birmingham, AL, or Washington, D.C. but it's higher than that of, say, San Diego, where I come from.
Yesterday I had to get out to the suburbs to have a tutorial session with one of my children here. (I teach English.) On the Metro, I noticed myself doing the same thing with my Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap that I used to do with it when I lived in southeastern China, where it's even hotter and more humid than it is here: taking it off and wiping the sweat off my head with it. I stopped on the way to my young pupil's apartment to slam down a bottle Schweppes' Bitter Lemon, asked my pupil's mother for a glass of water when I reached the apartment, refilled my water glass during our lesson, and then stopped on the way home for more water.
It's warm here. Guys are going around in shorts; gals in their lightest summer dresses (or their tightest jeans.) T-shirts and sandals are in evidence everywhere.
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| Muscovites doing the old jump-in-the-fountain bit. |
In this poem, Yevtushenko rhapsodizes about how miserable Rome is in summertime, the heat and humidity of the city eventually prompting him to imagine a mass striptease, with everyone jumping naked into the Po River. Yevtushenko was born in a spot called Zima Junction, in Siberia. "Zima" means "winter" in Russian, and I can just imagine, with his background, how violently Yevgeny Yevtushenko's constitution must have reacted to "the heat in Rome."
I know how he feels. Only I'm not in Rome. I'm in Moscow.
Moscow? Yes. There is a widely-held perception in the west that the former Soviet Union is cold all the time. When I arrived in Kiev, Ukraine three weeks ago on my way to Moscow, my friends on Facebook were all asking me if it was cold there. In point of fact, it was not. It's springtime, and even the former USSR can get quite warm in spring. In summer it's worse. Really. Read your Tolstoy. There are scenes in both War & Peace and The Cossacks where the soldiers are plagued by heat and mosquitoes. It happens here, believe me, despite the fact that most Americans can not envision Moscow as anything but buried in snow. In all honesty, Moscow is buried in snow for nearly six months of the year. But for the rest of the year ... well, just make sure you have some shorts, some T-shirts and some sunscreen available. You might need them. Moscow has very long days in the late spring and early summer, and when you're looking at 20 hours of sunlight, you just might be looking at 20 hours of sun.
It was has been uncomfortably warm in Moscow this week. I know, I'm here. The heat isn't unbearable by itself -- it's not 90 degrees (yet.) The problem is, it's sultry. Moscow's humidity isn't as bad as that of New Orleans, Birmingham, AL, or Washington, D.C. but it's higher than that of, say, San Diego, where I come from.
Yesterday I had to get out to the suburbs to have a tutorial session with one of my children here. (I teach English.) On the Metro, I noticed myself doing the same thing with my Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap that I used to do with it when I lived in southeastern China, where it's even hotter and more humid than it is here: taking it off and wiping the sweat off my head with it. I stopped on the way to my young pupil's apartment to slam down a bottle Schweppes' Bitter Lemon, asked my pupil's mother for a glass of water when I reached the apartment, refilled my water glass during our lesson, and then stopped on the way home for more water.
It's warm here. Guys are going around in shorts; gals in their lightest summer dresses (or their tightest jeans.) T-shirts and sandals are in evidence everywhere.
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| Trying to cool off, Moscow style. |
Now, I know I shouldn't complain. Because in about five months we're going to be looking at the opposite situation: COLD, everyone bundled up, cursing the snow and the slush. That's the Moscow familiar to my compatriots back home from television and movies. And yes, it's real. I have lived through a Moscow winter once before, and expect that my next one will be worse, because as mentioned on this page before, I'm living here now as an ex-pat American, subject to all of the same inconveniences as the locals. Before, I worked for (and lived at) the American embassy, where the comfort levels were much higher.
But I have this one thing going for me. Like young Yevtushenko's, (he's 79 now and living in Oklahoma, where it also gets both hot and cold) my genes are attuned to cold weather. My ancestors on my father's side were French Canadian, and hot weather has always driven me crazy. My dad once accused me of being "part Eskimo," so strong was my objection to being in hot places. And yes, I have often stated that my least favorite human activity is sweating.
But I'm doing my share of it now, believe it or not, right here in the shadow of the Kremlin.
And it's not even summer yet.
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