Don't do it!" My roommate's green eyes met mine in a steely gaze.
"You'll regret this for the rest of the term. I know you" He paused for emphasis. "I know you. You'll never make it without sleep."
I was moved by this impassioned plea. Here was a true friend, concerned for my happiness and sanity. Or maybe here was a roommate trying to prevent his predawn slumber from being cracked by the alarm, delivering him two hours premature into the cold, gray world.
I did not look forward to another term of 7:45 a.m. drill. I did not look forward to awakening groggy and nauseated by sleep deprivation. I did not look forward to tumbling down the stairs into the chilly house, the sharp gravel lying on the wood floors of the mudroom clinging to my tender feet. I did not look forward to brief and lukewarm showers, to spending a gruesome 10 minutes poking my bloodshot eyes with grainy contact lenses until the plastic clings to my eyes.
But I turned to the map of Russia on our wall, on the vast expanse of Siberia stretching remote and wild for 4,000 miles, hardly an English-speaker amongst it all. The lure of being trilingual was too great. And so I enlisted in Russian 2.
Drill does not get easier with time, but at least I've found a routine. I slither out of bed, switch off my alarm, and switch on my computer. I root through clothing for something to wear and head downstairs. I shove a pot of water on the stove, two slices bread in the toaster, and head for the shower. Bread and blitz are ready simultaneously. Shaving does not occur.
Before I know it, it's 7:32 a.m., and I rush to get my boots on my feet, my jacket on my back and myself out the door. This system still fails catastrophically about twice per week, making me hopelessly late. But if it all goes smoothly, sometimes I even have a spare second -- a spare second to sit at the kitchen table, sip tea and watch the woods, gray and whispy, slowly emerge from the frosty night.
And this is quite a thing, because on cold mornings every fold of bark and every twig is dusted with frost and the trees look like they are sketched in pencil. The whole street is frozen in place, silent. A few clouds hang in the indigo sky, and a pink glow spreads from the east.
I pause for a second at the top of the path that leads to West Wheelock Street and look out at the world. The pink light from the brightening day glances off every hard-frozen facet of ice. I take in one last moment of peace, then I plunge down to the street below. We've cut steps in the ice, and there's a rope to hold on to, but the trip still gives me a burst of adrenaline as I start my day.
By the time I climb most of the way up the hill to the green, the sun is already shining over Velvet Rocks and lighting the steam from the heating plant in oranges and yellows. The trees are awash in golden light.
When I get to the center of Hanover, cars already fight for passage through the streets, the air is filled with exhaust and the snow has turned from pink to gold to white. The quiet is gone, and I've got to get to speaking Russian.
My Russian is progressing slowly, and I still can't say, "I go to Russian class with my friend Sarah." But after 74 days of awakening before the sun, I have learned, "It is very cold today, but the sky is beautiful in the morning."
