The summer rain in Samara is heavy and loud. When it rains at night, it sounds like a herd of wild horses is running past my window. I don't know if this is because the rain drops are particularly large or particularly loud on the canopy cover. The rippling of flowing water in the downspouts sounds as if a medium-sized brook flowed into the Volga right in front of my window. The acoustics confuse me. They are incredibly unrealistic because the next morning there is no evidence of the imaginary masses of water of the previous night. Then the birds are chirping in front of my window, and the garden resembles paradise. On some mornings, when it's really quiet in the house, only the current of the electricity can be heard roaring through the walls, and the small guest refrigerator hums discreetly in the corner. Unlike in winter, the heating doesn't crack. In the distance of the house (or perhaps one of the neighbouring houses) I hear the first signs of life. Someone moves chairs.
I am beginning to think about what moments I want to make immortal through my penmanship. The moments I want to collect in this notebook that is my blog. Time is running faster than in Germany. It runs through my hands. I haven't gotten used to the time shift, yet, because although I get up around eight o'clock in Germany, I sleep until ten or eleven in Samara. It's easily explained by the two hour time difference, but as a result, the everyday life is always a little rushed. Usually, I enjoy the lonely early hours and need them to collect, brood, and wake up. Here in Samara, these precious hours have shifted to the end of the day, which in turn means that I am much too tired to produce anything worth your while. Also, my life rhythm doesn't change. It's one of those self-perpetuating cycles.
As a whole, I am busy here in Russia. In addition to the four hours I spend with A. and L. to practice English and German, I have Russian lessons three times a week. Sometimes, it's combined with a visit to one of the language classes of my Russian teachers. The way to the club (there are two dependencies) is either a half hour walk or an hour-long trip across the city by tram and metro. When I return, I usually lie down for an hour. Often, I am as exhausted physically as head-worn. Afterwards, there are lunch and afternoon lessons with the girls. In the evening, I rarely find myself collected enough so I can write something sensible. I always weigh should I spend this precious hour doing homework or writing a blog text? Often, I decide to do neither. Then, I escape into some movie, tv-series or podcast.
I can already feel the desire building, to finally speak the language predominantly spoken in the country I am visiting. My anticipation for Australia is increasing, but that is still really far away.
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