【Karelia's Amber Box】

Petrozavodsk slumbers in the folds of Lake Onega, like a piece of pine resin polished to translucence by time. In the early morning mist, I walk along a pine-needle path towards the lake. The water shimmers with the dark blue of cold iron, and for a moment, I imagine a Viking longship emerging from the fog—an ancient ballad flowing in the blood of the Karelians.

The wooden churches of Kizhi Island pulsate with golden-green domes, the 17th-century axe marks curling into sleeping snakes on the logs. Masha, the guide, pours lingonberry tea from a cracked ceramic cup. The sweet and sour berry aroma mingles with the scent of pine resin. Pointing to the church's mortise and tenon joints, she says, "Our ancestors believed that only a sanctuary built without a single nail could allow God to hear the prayers of the wood."

The cast-iron street lamps in Lenin Square open their brass eyes in the twilight, watching the red sandstone buildings draped in honey-colored light. In the sculpture park, bronze statues, pitted by the wind, whisper to the moss. Around a corner, you might encounter the ice cracks on the hem of Pushkin's bronze statue—this city crumbles time and embeds it into every crevice.

After tasting Karelian pies filled with spruce buds, the crispness of the coniferous forest still lingers on my tongue. On the platform of the old train station, a green train bound for Murmansk puffs white steam, the tracks stretching into silver strings in the twilight. This city at 61 degrees north latitude seals the roar of the Baltic Sea and the whispers of the aurora borealis in amber.

Post by ARL. Ida 3251 | Mar 18, 2025