The Hiding Place

Two Doors Cinema Club were singing their metaphorical songs in my headphones. But whatever they were singing, today these shining songs were an anti-anthem for the weather in Pavlodar region. “Sun” in my headphones apparently was the only possible Sun for today, and low colorless sky had more from the sky that was witnessed by train commuters in Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood. In last two days Nordic cool presumptuously interrupted summer heat marathon, covering the area of our camp with dense fog. That happened pretty timely: after two months of burning summer it was vital to refresh my body and mind. That happened pretty timely: after two months of hard work it was vital to come back to atmosphere of my childhood, here, to my homeland.

I was sitting on the beat-up old bench on the lakeside, hugging myself with a scarf. I was listening to the sunny music in a cloudy day, recalling memories from my early teenagehood. That was a time when a week here, in the camp called Crystal, was the main event of the whole summer. That was the time when I was napping on the beach thinking of buying stationary for the next school year, which every time was a bit exciting. That was a small ritual I used to perform annually, in the reckless atmosphere of my child version of summer paradise.

A lot of things have changed since then, but what have stayed with me is my freckled pale skin and pure love to deep-blue bikinis. I clearly imagine how 6 years ago I was sitting on the exactly same place, wearing the blue swimming suit, crumpling up corners of book pages. I see my brother trying to splash cold water on me, and myself squealing because water in mountain lakes stays chilly even in the hottest days. And I don’t have to recall the mountains in my memory – they remained the same, standing still, when everything from seasons to weather kept changing.

Looking now on these peaks, I literally can hear the voice of our guide, who used to lead us to the top of the mountains around the camp from year to year. This peak is called The Frog, and this one is The Lynx. While climbing up we used to make breaks. In front of us were The Shoe, The Sleeping Knight, The Bun – stone heroes of the legends I learned by heart for many years of wandering around this nature park.

I remember our family belief regarding this place. When the weather was bad before our arrival, we used to assure ourselves that it waits for us to come. And it surprisingly worked: we haven’t ever had a holiday spoiled because of weather, and we haven’t ever had a spoiled holiday when it comes to Crystal. It was a real fairytale and nothing has changed. Rocky alleyways and tennis court exist since my mom was a little girl, so I remembered Crystal as our family shelter from ordinary life, where we used to escape every summer.

This year I hid myself in a book with a frosty name, setting myself in a chilly hideout. Sunny days were staying in my headphones, my body was recharging with the warmness from early memories. But what I saw through the fog was the wood. It was right on the border between gloomy rocks and creamy clouds. It was cold. It was coniferous. It was Norwegian, as the book title said. It was differently beautiful from all other good old days I have ever spent here. And this is what was the most precious – discovering new sides of the homey place.