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Monday, November 24, 2008
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Saturday, November 22, 2008
09 July 2008: Yusopov Palace
Today we had a little excursion to the Yusupov Palace. It only struck me just now how creepy this visit should have been, but I didn’t notice at the time. You see, the Yusupov Palace was the site where Rasputin was murdered. The story is a gruesome one, to be sure. We were given a tour of every room where the gory story took place.
First, some background. Felix Yusupov was born into one of Russia’s wealthiest families and was married to Princess Irina Alexandrovna, neice of Tsar Nicholas II. Rasputin was a real creep. He claimed to be a holy man out of Siberia, possessing magical curative powers which he used to alleviate the effects of the Tsar’s son’s hemophilia. Rasputin held a great deal of sway over the Tsaritsa, for the obvious reason of his ability to cure, if momentarily, her son. This was all rather unfortunate because Rasputin was a nasty, nasty man. We don’t need to get into the graphic details. Needless to say, his influence on the Tsaritsa didn’t help the floundering reputation of the royal family. Thus, Felix Yusupov thought to stem the growing resentment of the Russian people by removing the unsightly blemish on their image.
The first thing our tour guide told us before taking us into Felix’s private apartments was not to be afraid. It didn’t take long to find out what she meant by this. We were taken into a sort of parlor where four wax figures waited. This was the group of Felix’s friends who had assembled to murder Rasputin. They did there best to make it look like it was just a simple party, but Rasputin didn’t seem to be fooled. Then we went down a tiny, cramped, and generally creepy staircase that led to a basement-level salon where we found Felix in the company of none other than Rasputin 
himself. The cookies and Madeira on the table-- laced with cyanide. Unfortunately, these didn’t seem to faze the old creep, so Felix shot him in the head. As Felix went to collect the body, the quite un-dead Rasputin moved to strangle him. Felix shot him a few more times for good measure. Then he and his friends scooped him up and plopped him in the frozen river just to be safe. Resilient old bugger. So, for everyone who’s seen Anastasia, now you know how Rasputin really met his end. The curse, though, is real. Apparently, a few nights before he was murdered, Rasputin wrote a prophetic letter claiming that he didn’t anticipate surviving the New Year (he was murdered on December 15th) and that if he were killed by noble hands, the Romanov dynasty would fall.
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The rest of the tour was interesting, but a lot less sensational than that last little bit. The Yusupov’s were extraordinarily wealthy. While not many of their original possessions are still around, what is left is impressive, and the size of the building itself is striking. Here is the chandelier that hangs in the main entrance to the palace.
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The tapestries in this salon were supposedly a gift of Napoleon at one point. What Napoleon was doing giving gifts to Russian royalty when he was at war with them, I’m not quite sure.
A bedroom. Oddly enough, the bedroom was located between the reception halls and the sitting rooms, so guests actually had to pass through the bedroom. I’m still not sure I understand the appeal of this layout. I asked the tour guide why there were pillows on the floor. She said they wanted to give it a “lived-in” feel. One last thing: the fireplace on the right is made out of solid onyx.
This circular sofa is located in a false rotunda. It’s an odd sort of room-- it’s square, but it’s made to look circular, quite effectively I might add. Henry and I decided that this piece of furniture was a cross between a couch and a pie: a pouch, if you will.
The blue living room. Nice color choice.
The cleverly-named red living room. I like blue better.
The Yusupov’s private theatre, still in use.
The library. If you look carefully in the center, you might see one of the secret passage-ways. Really, this house is full of all sorts of odd nooks and crannies.
The billiard room. Yes, the pool table really is gigantic; it’s not a trick of the camera. The concave rear of the room performs some amazing tricks of acoustics. Depending on where you whisper within the little dome, you can quite literally shoot a secret across the room.
An odd little room, decked out in Arab style. Not quite sure what to tell you. When you have that much money, why not indulge in random quirky interests?
So, what do you think? Candidate for best haunted house in Russia? I thought so. Afterwards, I got a call from Irina asking me to meet her on some street corner. Her directions weren’t so great. “Go out of the metro, turn right, cross the diwefvbmkjhg bridge, and I’ll meet you on the corner.” I apparently exited at the wrong place, because turning right did not bring me to the right bridge, not that I knew what the right bridge was. She kept calling me and asking me what was taking me so long and listing off various fifteen-syllable street names. When I told her I ended up by the Hermitage, she told me I’d gone the wrong way (really?) and started guiding me back. I asked her for landmarks, which seemed to help a bit. As I was on my way, she called me again to see what was still taking me so long. I told her I was walking as fast as I could (but I have to cross the bulk of the center of the city so chill out!) When I finally found her, she scolded me for being too slow and for not following directions. Sorry, I don’t know all the names of all the bridges in this city. I did feel badly for making her wait, because she was just doing me a favor, showing me a good place to buy presents for people. I ended up buying presents for my parents here.
On our way to the metro station, we passed this cathedral, the Vladimir Cathedral. I wanted to stop to take a picture. I was going to be quick about it, but Irina insisted that I go back up the sidewalk a ways to get a better shot, so she held my stuff and waited for me to do that. When I got back, I thanked her for waiting and apologized for all the trouble I’d given her that afternoon. “Well, if you weren’t giving me problems someone else would be.” My, you’re charming. After that it was back to the apartment. But I was walking too fast.
First, some background. Felix Yusupov was born into one of Russia’s wealthiest families and was married to Princess Irina Alexandrovna, neice of Tsar Nicholas II. Rasputin was a real creep. He claimed to be a holy man out of Siberia, possessing magical curative powers which he used to alleviate the effects of the Tsar’s son’s hemophilia. Rasputin held a great deal of sway over the Tsaritsa, for the obvious reason of his ability to cure, if momentarily, her son. This was all rather unfortunate because Rasputin was a nasty, nasty man. We don’t need to get into the graphic details. Needless to say, his influence on the Tsaritsa didn’t help the floundering reputation of the royal family. Thus, Felix Yusupov thought to stem the growing resentment of the Russian people by removing the unsightly blemish on their image.
The first thing our tour guide told us before taking us into Felix’s private apartments was not to be afraid. It didn’t take long to find out what she meant by this. We were taken into a sort of parlor where four wax figures waited. This was the group of Felix’s friends who had assembled to murder Rasputin. They did there best to make it look like it was just a simple party, but Rasputin didn’t seem to be fooled. Then we went down a tiny, cramped, and generally creepy staircase that led to a basement-level salon where we found Felix in the company of none other than Rasputin 
himself. The cookies and Madeira on the table-- laced with cyanide. Unfortunately, these didn’t seem to faze the old creep, so Felix shot him in the head. As Felix went to collect the body, the quite un-dead Rasputin moved to strangle him. Felix shot him a few more times for good measure. Then he and his friends scooped him up and plopped him in the frozen river just to be safe. Resilient old bugger. So, for everyone who’s seen Anastasia, now you know how Rasputin really met his end. The curse, though, is real. Apparently, a few nights before he was murdered, Rasputin wrote a prophetic letter claiming that he didn’t anticipate surviving the New Year (he was murdered on December 15th) and that if he were killed by noble hands, the Romanov dynasty would fall..JPG)
The rest of the tour was interesting, but a lot less sensational than that last little bit. The Yusupov’s were extraordinarily wealthy. While not many of their original possessions are still around, what is left is impressive, and the size of the building itself is striking. Here is the chandelier that hangs in the main entrance to the palace..JPG)
The tapestries in this salon were supposedly a gift of Napoleon at one point. What Napoleon was doing giving gifts to Russian royalty when he was at war with them, I’m not quite sure.
A bedroom. Oddly enough, the bedroom was located between the reception halls and the sitting rooms, so guests actually had to pass through the bedroom. I’m still not sure I understand the appeal of this layout. I asked the tour guide why there were pillows on the floor. She said they wanted to give it a “lived-in” feel. One last thing: the fireplace on the right is made out of solid onyx.
This circular sofa is located in a false rotunda. It’s an odd sort of room-- it’s square, but it’s made to look circular, quite effectively I might add. Henry and I decided that this piece of furniture was a cross between a couch and a pie: a pouch, if you will.
The blue living room. Nice color choice.
The cleverly-named red living room. I like blue better.
The Yusupov’s private theatre, still in use.
The library. If you look carefully in the center, you might see one of the secret passage-ways. Really, this house is full of all sorts of odd nooks and crannies.
The billiard room. Yes, the pool table really is gigantic; it’s not a trick of the camera. The concave rear of the room performs some amazing tricks of acoustics. Depending on where you whisper within the little dome, you can quite literally shoot a secret across the room.
An odd little room, decked out in Arab style. Not quite sure what to tell you. When you have that much money, why not indulge in random quirky interests?
So, what do you think? Candidate for best haunted house in Russia? I thought so. Afterwards, I got a call from Irina asking me to meet her on some street corner. Her directions weren’t so great. “Go out of the metro, turn right, cross the diwefvbmkjhg bridge, and I’ll meet you on the corner.” I apparently exited at the wrong place, because turning right did not bring me to the right bridge, not that I knew what the right bridge was. She kept calling me and asking me what was taking me so long and listing off various fifteen-syllable street names. When I told her I ended up by the Hermitage, she told me I’d gone the wrong way (really?) and started guiding me back. I asked her for landmarks, which seemed to help a bit. As I was on my way, she called me again to see what was still taking me so long. I told her I was walking as fast as I could (but I have to cross the bulk of the center of the city so chill out!) When I finally found her, she scolded me for being too slow and for not following directions. Sorry, I don’t know all the names of all the bridges in this city. I did feel badly for making her wait, because she was just doing me a favor, showing me a good place to buy presents for people. I ended up buying presents for my parents here.
On our way to the metro station, we passed this cathedral, the Vladimir Cathedral. I wanted to stop to take a picture. I was going to be quick about it, but Irina insisted that I go back up the sidewalk a ways to get a better shot, so she held my stuff and waited for me to do that. When I got back, I thanked her for waiting and apologized for all the trouble I’d given her that afternoon. “Well, if you weren’t giving me problems someone else would be.” My, you’re charming. After that it was back to the apartment. But I was walking too fast.
08 July 2008: Day of Love, Family, and Faithfulness
It may come as no surprise to you that Russians hate Valentine’s Day. So, in an effort to introduce love and happiness to the Russian people, the president’s wife Svetlana Vladimirovna Medvedeva decided to inaugurate a new holiday on the 8th of July: the Day of Love, Family, and Faithfulness. Karis told me about the celebration to be held that evening, so we decided to go see what the hubbub was all about. Wow. Hubbub did we find, indeed.
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All we wanted to do was go to the Peter and Paul Fortress to hear the bell carillon played. We found something else entirely. As we crossed onto the Zayachii Island where the fortress is located, we passed veritable battalions of police officers and militia. Sharing skeptical glances, we continued on into the central plaza where we were inundated with flags, pins, balloons, and paper hats proclaiming love, family, and faithfulness. When we tried to tell the volunteers that we already had several pins, they said, “Well, take some more!” I ended up with three pins; I think Karis ended up with five. We both burst out laughing when we saw the stage before us. I’ll let the picture speak for itself. Needless to say, the whole thing was way over the top in every way. (Sorry, Karis, for posting this on the internet. You look fabulous, though. Besides, I know you have one of me doing the same thing, so you’re free to take your revenge.)
People had already started to gather for whatever it was that was going to happen. We decided it couldn’t be too far off, so we decided to wait. We ended up waiting for two hours, but we weren’t without a great deal of entertainment in the form of people-watching . . . and the story of what came next was just too good to miss. Before the “celebration” began, the governor of St. Petersburg welcomed the guests of honor: a herd of old folks who had been married for, well, I forget how long, but it was a very long time. They sat themselves down in the chairs we had been denied for the last two hours by a ring of very stern-looking police officers. There was one, though, who looked pretty nice, but then he was just one out of hundreds. It was really quite humorous to watch quite how displeased his comrades were to be there, and how hard he was trying to hide his grins.
After all the old folks had found their seats, I witnessed the gaudiest, schmaltziest display I’ve ever seen in my life. Dozens of wedding couples poured out on to the stage, decked out in wedding gowns and tuxedos, where they proclaimed undying love for one another and released doves into the air to the thunderous eruption of confetti cannon. A young girl sang some sort of love song while toddlers dressed as white cherubs frolicked around the stage. We were treated to an excerpt from the Nutcracker, but all classiness faded after that.
The first act of what was to be a very long concert featured Nikolai Baskov, to much roaring, frenetic excitement of the crowd. Apparently his bleach-blond hair, ridiculously sappy lyrics, and constant winking are all the rage. Karis and I failed miserably in attempting to stifle our laughs as he circled and crooned his aged audience, collecting a greenhouse’s worth of bouquets. You, too, can enjoy the sensational Nikolai Baskov here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhAV6Dx5zss , though I dare say he looks much older in real life.
The festival was a study in contrasts. I think this one event embodies the bulk of what I learned of Russian culture. The bright lights, innumerable daisies, and bouncing balloons posed a stark contrast against the grey, brooding sky. In front of us, a woman clung fervently to her bunch of balloons as the people behind her chastised her for blocking her view, attempting to knock them out of her hands. Another woman dropped her balloon. The nice police officer caught it and handed it back, but she scowled and let it drift off into space. Yep, day of love. For sure.
We’d had our fill of Russian pop and saccharine lovey-dovey blah, so we decided it was time to go. Turning around for the first time since the concert started, I became aware of how difficult leaving might be. Throngs and throngs stood between us, inconveniently located at the very front of the crowd, and the gate to freedom. “This isn’t going to be easy,” I told Karis. I snapped a picture of the storm-tossed sea to show her, since she couldn’t see.
“Oh dear.”
“Okay, hold on to me. Ready? Here we go!”
The thrall Nikolai Boskov held over the crowd worked in our favor. Nature abhors a vacuum, so when people realized we were trying to get out, we were effectively shlooped away from the stage as people pressed forward to fill our spot. After we’d caught our breath, we burst out laughing.
When I got back to the apartment I gave one of my extra pins to Irina. When I told her that Nikolai Baskov performed, she swooned.
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All we wanted to do was go to the Peter and Paul Fortress to hear the bell carillon played. We found something else entirely. As we crossed onto the Zayachii Island where the fortress is located, we passed veritable battalions of police officers and militia. Sharing skeptical glances, we continued on into the central plaza where we were inundated with flags, pins, balloons, and paper hats proclaiming love, family, and faithfulness. When we tried to tell the volunteers that we already had several pins, they said, “Well, take some more!” I ended up with three pins; I think Karis ended up with five. We both burst out laughing when we saw the stage before us. I’ll let the picture speak for itself. Needless to say, the whole thing was way over the top in every way. (Sorry, Karis, for posting this on the internet. You look fabulous, though. Besides, I know you have one of me doing the same thing, so you’re free to take your revenge.)People had already started to gather for whatever it was that was going to happen. We decided it couldn’t be too far off, so we decided to wait. We ended up waiting for two hours, but we weren’t without a great deal of entertainment in the form of people-watching . . . and the story of what came next was just too good to miss. Before the “celebration” began, the governor of St. Petersburg welcomed the guests of honor: a herd of old folks who had been married for, well, I forget how long, but it was a very long time. They sat themselves down in the chairs we had been denied for the last two hours by a ring of very stern-looking police officers. There was one, though, who looked pretty nice, but then he was just one out of hundreds. It was really quite humorous to watch quite how displeased his comrades were to be there, and how hard he was trying to hide his grins.
After all the old folks had found their seats, I witnessed the gaudiest, schmaltziest display I’ve ever seen in my life. Dozens of wedding couples poured out on to the stage, decked out in wedding gowns and tuxedos, where they proclaimed undying love for one another and released doves into the air to the thunderous eruption of confetti cannon. A young girl sang some sort of love song while toddlers dressed as white cherubs frolicked around the stage. We were treated to an excerpt from the Nutcracker, but all classiness faded after that.
The first act of what was to be a very long concert featured Nikolai Baskov, to much roaring, frenetic excitement of the crowd. Apparently his bleach-blond hair, ridiculously sappy lyrics, and constant winking are all the rage. Karis and I failed miserably in attempting to stifle our laughs as he circled and crooned his aged audience, collecting a greenhouse’s worth of bouquets. You, too, can enjoy the sensational Nikolai Baskov here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhAV6Dx5zss , though I dare say he looks much older in real life.
The festival was a study in contrasts. I think this one event embodies the bulk of what I learned of Russian culture. The bright lights, innumerable daisies, and bouncing balloons posed a stark contrast against the grey, brooding sky. In front of us, a woman clung fervently to her bunch of balloons as the people behind her chastised her for blocking her view, attempting to knock them out of her hands. Another woman dropped her balloon. The nice police officer caught it and handed it back, but she scowled and let it drift off into space. Yep, day of love. For sure.
We’d had our fill of Russian pop and saccharine lovey-dovey blah, so we decided it was time to go. Turning around for the first time since the concert started, I became aware of how difficult leaving might be. Throngs and throngs stood between us, inconveniently located at the very front of the crowd, and the gate to freedom. “This isn’t going to be easy,” I told Karis. I snapped a picture of the storm-tossed sea to show her, since she couldn’t see.
“Oh dear.”
“Okay, hold on to me. Ready? Here we go!”
The thrall Nikolai Boskov held over the crowd worked in our favor. Nature abhors a vacuum, so when people realized we were trying to get out, we were effectively shlooped away from the stage as people pressed forward to fill our spot. After we’d caught our breath, we burst out laughing.
When I got back to the apartment I gave one of my extra pins to Irina. When I told her that Nikolai Baskov performed, she swooned.
07 July 2008: Штолле
Today after class, Henry, Karis, and I decided to go over to Stolle. “Stolle” doesn’t really mean anything, I don’t think, but for us it meant heavenly sustenance in the form of mouth-watering pies. Stolle offers fruit pies in an array of flavors, packed with apricots or cherries or blueberries or strawberries or lemon or . . . There are also savory pies, with rabbit, or beef, or fish, or cheese, or cabbage, and on and on. It’s so delightful, and so cheap. Sigh. On a rainy, chilly day, there’s nothing quite like holding a pound of warm gooey pie in your hands and plunging right in. The first time we went there, I ordered a medium-sized piece of apple pie. I thought they told me there wasn’t enough, so they asked if I would like apricot instead. I said that would be fine, but suddenly they handed me a medium-sized piece of apricot and a medium-sized piece of apple. Holding over two pounds of pie, I can’t say I was overly disappointed. I ate them both on the spot. This particular day I took lemon, which was also delicious. I would have the beef, peach, and strawberry pies as well before the end of my time in Russia.
We parted ways after our gorge-fest. I didn’t really do much the rest of the day other than work in the computer lab.
Here’s a particularly stunning sunset taken out my window . . . probably around one in the morning.
We parted ways after our gorge-fest. I didn’t really do much the rest of the day other than work in the computer lab.
Here’s a particularly stunning sunset taken out my window . . . probably around one in the morning.06 July 2008: A Walk in the Rain
An odd thing happened today. I was on the computer in my room when Irina came by and knocked. She came in, saw that I was on the computer and adopted a disapproving glare. “Who told you you could go on the computer?” she demanded. My brain sort of went *splutter, stammer . . . what?* Um, well, you did, sort of, when you told me repeatedly over the first few weeks to make myself at home, and when you encourage me to write e-mails to my family (which, incidentally, I was in the process of doing when she came in.) “You need to get off, now.”
“Oh, okay, I’ll just finish . . .”
“No. Right now.”
“Oh. Okay.” And I started shutting down programs.“You need to ask before you use the computer. [Insert things I didn’t really understand. I think it had something to do with the computer being old, which it certainly was, and not wanting to overwork it and how it was just for her and Maxim, or something.] Are you shutting it down?”
“Yes, I am, right now.”
She left the room, and as she was on her way out the front door she called back one more time, “Shut it off, Andrew.” And then she was off. Now, I can understand if she didn’t want to overwork her ancient computer, but it was still a bit abrupt, I thought. Oh well, on with the day.
I decided I’d spent quite too much time in the apartment over the weekend, so I went for a walk in the rain. There is a second well-known statue of Peter the Great that I hadn’t seen yet, so I wandered to the Mikhailovsky Castle where it stands. Peter stands as a Caesar on a gigantic, stately pedestal, quite the contrast to the rambunctious rendition of Falconay.
Remember, Mikhailovsky Castle was the home of short-lived Emperor Paul I? I wandered into the central courtyard of the castle where I found this sad little statue of the emperor. He looks so shrunken and timid, like he’s paranoid of being bludgeoned at any moment, for good reason. 
After that I went across the river to the Summer Gardens, my favorite place in St. Petersburg. It was mostly empty because of the rain. I found myself a nice bench and took a seat. Snug under my umbrella, I passed the afternoon reading Crime and Punishment. I doubt you can get much moodier (pronounced: “Russian”) than that. If only I had a bottle of vodka to drown away my sorrows.
“Oh, okay, I’ll just finish . . .”
“No. Right now.”
“Oh. Okay.” And I started shutting down programs.“You need to ask before you use the computer. [Insert things I didn’t really understand. I think it had something to do with the computer being old, which it certainly was, and not wanting to overwork it and how it was just for her and Maxim, or something.] Are you shutting it down?”
“Yes, I am, right now.”
She left the room, and as she was on her way out the front door she called back one more time, “Shut it off, Andrew.” And then she was off. Now, I can understand if she didn’t want to overwork her ancient computer, but it was still a bit abrupt, I thought. Oh well, on with the day.
I decided I’d spent quite too much time in the apartment over the weekend, so I went for a walk in the rain. There is a second well-known statue of Peter the Great that I hadn’t seen yet, so I wandered to the Mikhailovsky Castle where it stands. Peter stands as a Caesar on a gigantic, stately pedestal, quite the contrast to the rambunctious rendition of Falconay. 
Remember, Mikhailovsky Castle was the home of short-lived Emperor Paul I? I wandered into the central courtyard of the castle where I found this sad little statue of the emperor. He looks so shrunken and timid, like he’s paranoid of being bludgeoned at any moment, for good reason. 
After that I went across the river to the Summer Gardens, my favorite place in St. Petersburg. It was mostly empty because of the rain. I found myself a nice bench and took a seat. Snug under my umbrella, I passed the afternoon reading Crime and Punishment. I doubt you can get much moodier (pronounced: “Russian”) than that. If only I had a bottle of vodka to drown away my sorrows.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
05 July 2008: Царское Село
Today we took our second palace excursion, this time to the little suburb town of Pushkin, named after the Russian demagogue who studied here, where Catherine the Great built her summer palace. The name of the palace, Царское Село (Tsarskoe Selo), means “Tsar’s Village” but more than probably is derived from the original Finnish name for the area.
I don’t really have much to say about the palace, actually. Beautiful, opulent, destroyed during World War II. The gardens are really quite pleasant. I feel awful saying this, but after a while, a palace is a palace . . . does that make me a bad person? Yes, they are thrilling, but I quickly run out of original things to say about them. I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.
The central part of the palace.
Couldn't fit the whole thing in, so this is the North wing (I'm guessing). It's symmetrical, so this is what it looked like on the other side of the entrance, too.
A really neat clock from the main stairwell. There was a barometer, too. Sadly, the time was not right.
A ballroom, with a piano (*swoon*).
A dining room, where the nobles while away the hours on scrumptious dishes. This palace is still under renovation. Note the scaffalding behind the window in the top right.
A chess set. Fun stuff. If I remember correctly, this chess set came from China. Peter was very fond of chess. Alas, this was not Peter's palace.
These flowers are sleepy.
Like I said, the gardens are very nice. This little pond is fairly close to the palace itself, just down the steps from the building, actually. There is also a pretty large lake within the grounds, with an island. There's a gigantic pillar on the island with an eagle perched on top (it looks like a dragon decided to stop by) to commemorate Russia's victory at Chesme. Catherine was obsessed with this battle and commemorated paintings, churches, and monuments to be made for the occasion. Actually, in the palace there is a series of paintings depicting the naval battles at Chesme. One painting shows a ship exploding. The artist was a little miffed as how to paint an exploding ship, since he had never seen one before. Easily resolved: Catherine had one blown up in the harbor for his viewing pleasure. If that story doesn't just scream Russian, I don't know what does.
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Part of the lake, and a bridge.
Lake again, with a little getaway house.
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Tsarskoe Selo is in a town called Pushkin, named after the incredibly famous (the Russians are obsessed with him) poet. This was his honeymoon house in the village.
I don’t really have much to say about the palace, actually. Beautiful, opulent, destroyed during World War II. The gardens are really quite pleasant. I feel awful saying this, but after a while, a palace is a palace . . . does that make me a bad person? Yes, they are thrilling, but I quickly run out of original things to say about them. I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.
The central part of the palace.
Couldn't fit the whole thing in, so this is the North wing (I'm guessing). It's symmetrical, so this is what it looked like on the other side of the entrance, too.
A really neat clock from the main stairwell. There was a barometer, too. Sadly, the time was not right.
A ballroom, with a piano (*swoon*).
A dining room, where the nobles while away the hours on scrumptious dishes. This palace is still under renovation. Note the scaffalding behind the window in the top right.
A chess set. Fun stuff. If I remember correctly, this chess set came from China. Peter was very fond of chess. Alas, this was not Peter's palace.
These flowers are sleepy.
Like I said, the gardens are very nice. This little pond is fairly close to the palace itself, just down the steps from the building, actually. There is also a pretty large lake within the grounds, with an island. There's a gigantic pillar on the island with an eagle perched on top (it looks like a dragon decided to stop by) to commemorate Russia's victory at Chesme. Catherine was obsessed with this battle and commemorated paintings, churches, and monuments to be made for the occasion. Actually, in the palace there is a series of paintings depicting the naval battles at Chesme. One painting shows a ship exploding. The artist was a little miffed as how to paint an exploding ship, since he had never seen one before. Easily resolved: Catherine had one blown up in the harbor for his viewing pleasure. If that story doesn't just scream Russian, I don't know what does.
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Part of the lake, and a bridge.
Lake again, with a little getaway house.
.JPG)
Tsarskoe Selo is in a town called Pushkin, named after the incredibly famous (the Russians are obsessed with him) poet. This was his honeymoon house in the village.04 July 2008: Into the Wild
Happy Fourth of July everyone! Naturally, people here don’t care at all.
As today was Friday again, it meant another trip to the Russian Museum. Today we focused on landscapes, realism, and caricatures which were supposedly hilarious at one time. Actually, one was pretty funny. I forget exactly what it’s called. “The Duke’s Courtship” or something like that. Clearly, the woman is thrilled to be engaged . . .
St. Petersburg is a pretty city when you don’t look at the garbage, the beggars, or too closely at the canals. Even so, I was in serious need of some greenery and the Summer Gardens wasn’t going to cut it. Karis lives on the very edge of the city, at the end of the yellow metro line. Way out there, there is a gigantic park which, on maps, is a gigantic green blob that covers the entire northwest area. Sounded good to me, so off we went. First we made a pit-stop at Karis’s apartment where I met the family cat. It’s a feisty little bugger. After I got done playing with it, my arms looked like those of a heroin addict. And I managed to break yet another toilet. To fix it, Karis and I wedged ourselves into the tiny bathroom (sitting, your knees would touch the door), I holding the flashlight, and she with her head practically in the tank trying to see what mechanism I had managed to dislodge. Yet another awkward moment for the two of us.
We gave up on the toilet (which apparently fixed itself anyway) and headed to the park. For quite a while, we had trouble finding our way off the trail that merely encircles the wilderness. We made a few attempts to bushwhack our way in, but gave up when we found only a lot of trash, wild dogs, and drunken Russians. Surprise, surprise. We did eventually find a path that sliced its way into the forest. While it took a bit to really get away from all the garbage (rusted truck, anyone?), it turned into a very pretty trail. This was very much worth the trip. Take a gander. It was quite the hike and I think we were both pretty pooped after it was over.
As today was Friday again, it meant another trip to the Russian Museum. Today we focused on landscapes, realism, and caricatures which were supposedly hilarious at one time. Actually, one was pretty funny. I forget exactly what it’s called. “The Duke’s Courtship” or something like that. Clearly, the woman is thrilled to be engaged . . . 
St. Petersburg is a pretty city when you don’t look at the garbage, the beggars, or too closely at the canals. Even so, I was in serious need of some greenery and the Summer Gardens wasn’t going to cut it. Karis lives on the very edge of the city, at the end of the yellow metro line. Way out there, there is a gigantic park which, on maps, is a gigantic green blob that covers the entire northwest area. Sounded good to me, so off we went. First we made a pit-stop at Karis’s apartment where I met the family cat. It’s a feisty little bugger. After I got done playing with it, my arms looked like those of a heroin addict. And I managed to break yet another toilet. To fix it, Karis and I wedged ourselves into the tiny bathroom (sitting, your knees would touch the door), I holding the flashlight, and she with her head practically in the tank trying to see what mechanism I had managed to dislodge. Yet another awkward moment for the two of us.
We gave up on the toilet (which apparently fixed itself anyway) and headed to the park. For quite a while, we had trouble finding our way off the trail that merely encircles the wilderness. We made a few attempts to bushwhack our way in, but gave up when we found only a lot of trash, wild dogs, and drunken Russians. Surprise, surprise. We did eventually find a path that sliced its way into the forest. While it took a bit to really get away from all the garbage (rusted truck, anyone?), it turned into a very pretty trail. This was very much worth the trip. Take a gander. It was quite the hike and I think we were both pretty pooped after it was over..JPG)
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