Her name was Jenifer. She stood at the flower shop along with her girlfriends.
We are driving away from Moscow to St. Petersburg tonight, and I was hanging around. She asked to take her away. And I did.
She spent the whole night and part of the next day staring out of the window at the somber late-fall bogs on the way from Moscow to St Petersburg thoughtfully wagging her head as the rhythm of the train wheels clicking.
She saw Moscow railway station, viewed St. Petersburg streets on a way to the hotel and finally set in a tall vase at the hotel table.
We did not take her to the Viborg castle. It was cold. That’s why she did not see the mysterious park Monrepo.
and the city Viborg – so homey and beautiful… some time ago.
And now there are Finnish tourists wondering around the streets, who likely wish to take their historic domains back and set them in order a bit. Why can’t these Russians do it with all their black-gold and money?
This house is something around 500 years old and it is still settled – check the modern windows. There is a notice next to the door: «Dear residents! Central heating will be set at your house on March, 20». At last.
Viborg castle is majestic, but the inner reconstruction is rather poor – better not to come in and get disappointed.
Although in the addition to the Viborg castle there is an intact former beer store where you can fit ancient armour.
On the next day Jenifer missed the trip to the Pavlovsky Park, amazing with its grooming and delicacy. It is near St Petersburg.
Pavlovsky Palace is separate topic. No matter how insane, silly, ugly and miserable its owner is, the palace is cozy, warm and elegant.
And on the next day, right before the departure from St Petersburg to Moscow, we took Jenifer to dine with us at the restaurant with amazing interior called “Camelot”.
Later the author of this blog created one of his Internet avatars from the photo taken at this restaurant.
She managed to stand the way back from St Petersburg to Moscow and still stood for a long time in the vase on the coffee table, musing over her destiny, plentiful with impressions, very seldom to fall to a flower’s lot, even such a kingly flower as a rose.
And then she died, but I left her on the same table, but put her to the cognac gift box with a surprisingly fitting niche, allegedly made especially for her.