I feared the Russian winter before I lived there. Everyone does. Ever seen Dr. Zhivago? That kind of winter.
What I didn’t expect was how much I’d love it.
I’ve been a runner for thirty years. I ran through those winters too. I didn’t care about the temperature. Some mornings it was forty below. The air felt sharp enough to bite. My eyelashes froze. My breath crystallized.
You learn quickly what matters. Layers matter. Three pairs of underwear matter. You don’t linger. Movement is essential. Too many layers and you overheat, even below zero.
Running in that cold was strangely clarifying. No music. No distractions. Just the crunch of my feet on packed snow and the forest standing completely still.
Eleven a.m., sun, low over towering, snow-covered pines.
Winter stripped things down to essentials.
When I came back, my apartment felt impossibly warm. I’d put the kettle on and make Earl Grey in a teapot, loose leaf. I’d cut thick slices of fresh bread with raisins and spread real butter while it …
