Column:

A nostalgic look at Columbia

By Polina Yamshchikov

Published July 11, 2007

After making some very questionable decisions the previous night, I woke up Saturday morning at exactly 6:40 a.m. to an angry headache and an even angrier sky.

I let out a low groan acknowledging the dawn, and when it was returned from across the bed, I realized I was most definitely not alone. The ensuing panic was fleeting, though, as I swiftly noticed that my pants were still in place. Pants? Shirt? Socks, strangely enough? Check, check, check. Fully clothed is definitely a good way to start the day.

Going back to sleep would have been futile at that point. I got up after my friend and I exchanged the most awkward of goodbyes. My roommates weren't awake yet and, given that my apartment is lifeless without them, I left.

Columbia in the summertime is so laid back and vacant that I have to stop and marvel at it sometimes. Our city at 7 a.m. is even more languid; it's almost disconcerting. It's like the beginning of the movie "Vanilla Sky" when Tom Cruise finds that everyone in New York has gone missing and that song by Radiohead swells in the background, the perfect accompaniment to such vast emptiness.

After stealing the Wall Street Journal that lay abandoned on my neighbor's doorstep (he's a dick anyway), I made my way to the Starbucks that's situated next to my apartment. What else is even open at 7 a.m.? I haven't been conscious enough at that hour to know.

Everyone in Starbucks is somnolent, and they move their eyes slowly, like sleepy kittens in the sunlight - although I guess that's why they are all here, to receive their daily double-shot in preparation to face the day. At the very moment that I exited Starbucks, coffee in hand, the bells of the Missouri United Methodist Church on Ninth Street began to toll, signaling the beginning of a service. They were beautiful. Their delicate ringing, carefully arranged into a melody unknown to me, continued for about 10 minutes and then stopped abruptly.

I decided to walk downtown. There was nothing open at that hour, so I strolled past Maude V. and The Blue Note, peering into their dimmed windows. I meandered by Slackers CDs and Games, El Rancho and Harpo's. Hitt Street Garage loomed over the entire district, looking like an extra prop from "Transformers." Birds chirped, and it began to rain.

I wish I could tell you that the moment was awe-inspiring, that the sun burst through the clouds like a fiery explosion, and then one of the ubiquitous hobos that hang out by the Blue Fugue told me the secret of life in one intelligible sentence among a string of otherwise meaningless babble. But it wasn't. The sky was still as dreary as ever, and the hobos were all asleep on their various benches.

What I mean to say, though, is despite the lack of momentum in my morning, it was by no means a disappointment. Columbia is a wonderful town, particularly in the summer. Sometimes I forget that. I guess after going to Sparky's, the most amazing ice cream shop in town practically every other day this summer, or going to the 'Berg for dinner three nights in a row every weekend, the illustrious sheen that seemed to coat The District at the beginning of my freshman year somehow got forgotten.

Maybe all it takes is a quick walk downtown on a dreary morning, still kind of drunk from the previous night, for that first, decadently immature love to come rushing back.