Its name is Terminal. Yet the name of a place can sometimes contradict the meaning it acquires in a person’s life. A terminal is where journeys end; for me, it became the threshold where one night crossed into the following day and a coincidence began turning into a story. By the time we left The Hat, it was already 23 April 2026. When we entered Terminal, two Arab men and an Uzbek woman were sitting at the table in the corner beside the old piano. We took the round table immediately next to theirs. There were six of us. I sat on the side closest to the door, while she sat directly opposite me. The chairs were close together, yet our closeness had little to do with the size of the table. That night, our languages, countries and pasts seemed to have been left outside the door. Laughter travelled from one person to another, while unfinished sentences found their completion in someone else’s eyes. No one at the table seemed like a stranger to anyone else. Yet amid the warmth shared by six people, there was another kind of closeness that no table could explain. The distance between us had already disappeared. I did not know exactly when it had happened. Perhaps with our first exchanged glance at The Hat, perhaps while we were walking to Terminal, or perhaps at some point before we had even met… We were not sitting side by side. Between us lay the white surface of the round table, several glasses and the mingled voices of six people. Even so, I never had to search for her within the crowd; wherever my gaze wandered, it eventually returned to her. Her slightest movement crossed the table and continued in me, while my silence found an answer in her eyes. We sat on opposite sides of the table, yet moved within the same rhythm. It was as though our bodies remained in separate places while some invisible part of us had already become one. Meanwhile, my eyes met those of one of the Arab men at the next table several times. At first, we merely greeted each other with a nod—a small gesture of courtesy between two strangers that required no explanation. After a while, that greeting became a brief exchange of a few sentences. Perhaps this encounter captured the spirit of Terminal better than anything else: on the same night, inside the same room, people who did not even know one another’s names could cross the boundary of unfamiliarity with nothing more than a glance and a nod. After some time, the two Arab men and the Uzbek woman left the bar. Only then did we rise from our first table and move to the now-vacant corner beside the old piano. Our seating arrangement changed, but the centre of the night did not. The piano stood beside us like a seventh person, listening to every conversation without ever joining the table. The photographs taken that night preserve different moments from those two tables: six faces gathered into the same frame, smiles blending into one another, rings left by glasses on the white tabletops and a blue cocktail carrying the colour of the night within it. A photograph can show where everyone was sitting, but it cannot reveal the moment when the distance between two people ceased to exist. Only memory can preserve that. Looking at the photographs now, I understand that my memory kept those two separate tables as though they were one. When a night enters deeply into us, we do not arrange its objects in their correct order; we place them according to the weight they leave in the heart. The tables had changed. The direction of my gaze had not. I did not know that night whether any of this was taking place only within me. Yet there are moments in life that need no proof of their reality. The feeling they leave while they are being lived is stronger than all the evidence that could ever be gathered afterward. Terminal’s true beauty lies here: it can hold the bustle of the night without disturbing the silence of the day. With its long wooden bar, warm lighting and broad windows opening onto the street, it can make room one night for the laughter of people from different countries and another day for a coffee drunk alone. It neither lets the crowd become overwhelming nor makes solitude feel heavy. When I returned in daylight, placed my hat on the table and sat with my coffee, I looked for a long time at those two tables standing beside one another. All that appeared to remain from the night were a few chairs and two white tabletops. Yet empty tables preserve lived nights better than photographs. They do not remember the sounds; they remember the moments when people drew closer to one another. Perhaps that is why the name Terminal still feels so ironic to me. A terminal is where journeys are supposed to end. Yet in the first hours of 23 April 2026, somewhere between those two tables, my story did not end. It began.

Ленусь я всё уберу

Level 24 Local Expert

Небольшой, уютный, но уже чуть потертый интерьер)). Огромное панорамное окно с открывающимися створками и классно, что вид красивый, как-будто пьёшь с городом вместе)). Мимо идут люди бросая свои взгляды на тебя отдыхающего, а ты пьешь холодную корону с лаймом, улыбаешься и наслаждаешься моментом). В ассортименте коктейли на любой вкус.) На кране 4 пива и сидр от Бюльви. Я взяла корону с лаймом, девочки по коктейлю. Еще попробовали паштет из куриной печени. Вкусно. Чек на 4-х: 2960₽

Елизавета Г.

Level 4 Local Expert

Намешали вкуснейших коктейлей на мескале, делают как по меню, так и без, вкусно всё, если хочется классику, но с изменениями под личные предпочтения, тоже сделают по красоте. В честь дня рождения угостили комплиментом - шотом домашней лимончелло, очень вкусно и приятно. Бармены - классные приятные ребята. Закуски тоже отличные. В следующий визит в Питер обязательно вернусь

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