Traffic is bumper to bumper and we slowly crawl through the city across frozen canals and through snow drifts falling from rooftops.
Pushkin isn’t your typical village. It’s one of incredible wealth between stately homes and grand palaces. It sits atop a hill a short drive away from Saint Petersburg. It has been the often unspoken center of Russia’s history. Many of the czars that came to rule Russia after Peter the Great made this town there home from Catherine the Great to Nicholas II.
Trudging through the softly pilled snow along the markets. Boots sinking down with every step following the freshly created footpath. The market is quiet from its usually hustle and bustle.
Throughout the night I toss and turn. The light from outside illuminating the large vaulted room. The dream still haunting my conscious. Restless, I wander over to the window and drawback the shear curtains. The snow outside lights up the night. Pushing the television back I climb up onto the desk and lean against the window. There was something magical about the serenity of a Saint Petersburg Sunday night.
It’s rare for me to wake up and remember a dream… more often then not if I do remember they were the stuff of nightmares. But this time was different.
Before 2008 silicone valley found a new home on the emerald isle. Ireland became a strong and prosperous country. They called it the Celtic Tiger; and it appeared Ireland was sprinting miles ahead into the new century. Now Ireland was facing the same fate as Greece.
While Celtic Tiger was dying the slow death, I flew right into the middle of the storm.
For years now there has been a story in the back of my mind. Yearning to be told. Thousands of words needing to be assembled. But how best to communicate what was experienced.