I love my city. It’s saturated by a leisurely atmosphere and gentle fog in the mornings. My windows face to the north, and the Big Dipper hugs my sleep at nights. Everything is very simple here. The city breathes calm and quietness. People. Their hearts are beating. But sometimes they don’t have a clue about it. If it rains, everybody hides under the peak of houses and shops, huddled like tinned herrings. Everybody is very different here. Happy and miserable. As in any other city. One by himself, one for effect. Somewhere inside, somewhere out. Something is honest, and not so much.

Who are you? And why did you come? Where is your place? And where is your home? The air, wind, silence. Are they yours or not? Only swallows know the truth. It’s always better to see from Above. It’s my city. Warm-hearted, formed by the milk of human kindness. Hopes and expectations. By dreams, commotions, anticipations. Everything is naturally walking by with a fluid gait. Ivanovo. It is the city of brides.

— Alena Zhandarova