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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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Monday, September 22, 2008
02 July 2008: Hermitage, again
I believe the technical term for the size of the Hermitage is “gi-normous.” Today I took trip number two, this time with Daniel, Henry, and Claudiu. It was a much nicer day, and the line was much shorter. The two, I suppose, have something to do with each other. Sadly, I was caught with my camera this time and was asked to put it in storage or pay the extra hundred rubles. So, no pictures for you today . . . except for the one at right. Remember how there used to be a different entrance to the museum when part of it was still a palace? This is that entrance. It's called the Portico of the Atlantes.It is nearly impossible to keep together when everyone has their own interests and starts wandering off on their own, so we agreed on a meet-up time and dispersed. Henry and Claudiu headed off in the direction of the exhibition hall (featuring palatial tents) while Daniel and I went to go find the impressionists and modernists. The last time I was here, I had only found these as it was time to be going. It was great to be able to spend more time with Monet, Gauguin, Cezanne, Pissarro, Picasso, Renoir, Degas, and the rest. I really love that period. After that, it was down to the basement to see ancient artifacts from the Golden Hordes, Babylon, and Byzantium. Time flies when you’re in a gigantic museum, so that’s really all we had time for.
On our way out, we found the entirety of the Hermitage surrounded by militia. We were only allowed to leave through a small pathway leading out along the building. I stopped to ask one of the guards what was going on. He looked kind of surprised that I was talking to him and, after a pause in which he seemed to consider whether he should respond, muttered something incomprehensible. I’m still not sure what was going on there.
If I’m not mistaken, this is the evening where we went to a piano concert. The pianist (who’s name I will have to look up when I get home) played arrangements of Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain,” the Nutcracker Suite, and quite a few Rachmaninoff pieces. The Nutcracker Suite was particularly phenomenal. And, as always, tickets were super cheap. Four dollars for this one.
01 July 2008: Ogress in the Grocery Store
Happy July!
So, today Daniel, Karis, Henry, Claudiu, and I were on our way somewhere or other (my paper brain fails me) and we decided to get some lunch supplies. I think this was the day we ended up in the Yusopov Gardens, actually. The rest of the gang went off to there various locales for foodstuffs, and I went to get laundry detergent.
Here I must interject a small story. Irina came into my room and asked me if I knew I was supposed to buy laundry detergent. This was actually part of the housing agreement we had with our host families: they were to do our laundry once per week and we were supposed to provide the laundry soap. This was something I had sort of spaced out on. I told her that I would be happy to go get some soap if she wanted, but I would need to know where to go and what kind to get. For some strange reason she seemed reluctant to tell me. I repeated that I didn’t know where to find something like that, and that I couldn’t get any if I didn’t know where to go. She got a bit huffy and finally told me to go to “Dixie” and get some. And that was that. While it was part of the contract, I was still kind of put out I guess. It hadn’t been a problem until that point, and it just didn’t seem like a convivial, “hey, welcome to the family” sort of thing to say, bringing up the contract and all. I felt like she was being a little cold during it, but, like I said, it was my job and I screwed up, so I went looking for soap. (As an aside, I learned later that not another person in the Brown crew ever was asked, or did, buy any laundry detergent.)
I found the soap Irina had suggested and found my way to the cash registers. A woman behind me asked whether I was in line. My sarcastic side thought, “No, I’m just standing here with a box of laundry detergent for fun.” But that’s not a good way to make friends, so I just said yes.
“Which line are you in?”
“This one, for cash register number 5.”
“You’re not Russian.” Yeah, it was more of a statement than a question.
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, what are you then?”
“American.”
“Oh, I thought you were Polish.”
“Why did you think I was Polish?”
“Because all Americans are idiots.”
“Oh. I hope I’m not an idiot.”
“Why do you think you’re not an idiot.”
“I didn’t say I thought I wasn’t an idiot. I said I hoped I wasn’t an idiot.” This made her smile a sardonic little grin and she proceeded to ask me what I was studying and where and why I was in St. Petersburg. When I got in line, the woman at the register asked me that infuriating question all Russian clerks ask: “Do you have a (fill in the blank with a denomination of currency)?” No! For goodness’ sake, people, I do not have fifteen rubles! People like you keep demanding all my small change! The woman scowled as I said I didn’t have any smaller denominations. The ogress behind me made a point of informing our disgruntled friend that I was an American.
While there was no open confrontation involved, the situation was a little rattling, so I was glad to join up with Daniel, Karis, Henry, and Claudiu to be on our merry way.
I told this story to Irina later that night, and she said that woman was sick. Comforting, I thought.
So, today Daniel, Karis, Henry, Claudiu, and I were on our way somewhere or other (my paper brain fails me) and we decided to get some lunch supplies. I think this was the day we ended up in the Yusopov Gardens, actually. The rest of the gang went off to there various locales for foodstuffs, and I went to get laundry detergent.
Here I must interject a small story. Irina came into my room and asked me if I knew I was supposed to buy laundry detergent. This was actually part of the housing agreement we had with our host families: they were to do our laundry once per week and we were supposed to provide the laundry soap. This was something I had sort of spaced out on. I told her that I would be happy to go get some soap if she wanted, but I would need to know where to go and what kind to get. For some strange reason she seemed reluctant to tell me. I repeated that I didn’t know where to find something like that, and that I couldn’t get any if I didn’t know where to go. She got a bit huffy and finally told me to go to “Dixie” and get some. And that was that. While it was part of the contract, I was still kind of put out I guess. It hadn’t been a problem until that point, and it just didn’t seem like a convivial, “hey, welcome to the family” sort of thing to say, bringing up the contract and all. I felt like she was being a little cold during it, but, like I said, it was my job and I screwed up, so I went looking for soap. (As an aside, I learned later that not another person in the Brown crew ever was asked, or did, buy any laundry detergent.)
I found the soap Irina had suggested and found my way to the cash registers. A woman behind me asked whether I was in line. My sarcastic side thought, “No, I’m just standing here with a box of laundry detergent for fun.” But that’s not a good way to make friends, so I just said yes.
“Which line are you in?”
“This one, for cash register number 5.”
“You’re not Russian.” Yeah, it was more of a statement than a question.
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, what are you then?”
“American.”
“Oh, I thought you were Polish.”
“Why did you think I was Polish?”
“Because all Americans are idiots.”
“Oh. I hope I’m not an idiot.”
“Why do you think you’re not an idiot.”
“I didn’t say I thought I wasn’t an idiot. I said I hoped I wasn’t an idiot.” This made her smile a sardonic little grin and she proceeded to ask me what I was studying and where and why I was in St. Petersburg. When I got in line, the woman at the register asked me that infuriating question all Russian clerks ask: “Do you have a (fill in the blank with a denomination of currency)?” No! For goodness’ sake, people, I do not have fifteen rubles! People like you keep demanding all my small change! The woman scowled as I said I didn’t have any smaller denominations. The ogress behind me made a point of informing our disgruntled friend that I was an American.
While there was no open confrontation involved, the situation was a little rattling, so I was glad to join up with Daniel, Karis, Henry, and Claudiu to be on our merry way.
I told this story to Irina later that night, and she said that woman was sick. Comforting, I thought.
30 June 2008: Ukrainian Folk Remedies
30 June 2008
By two days after my [un]eventful night out, the four o’clock chill, the cigarette smoke, and the ashes I inhaled overwhelmed my immune system. I came down with a pretty sore throat and a headache, really nothing some rest wouldn’t have taken care of. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling Irina that I had a sore throat. After admonishing me for not wearing enough clothes that night, she began administering her ancient Ukrainian folk remedies.
Medicine number one was chamomile tea. Definitely harmless, though I’ve never been a huge fan of chamomile. Medicine number two was some sort of herbal infusion that I was supposed to steep for half an hour. This produced a lime-green liquid that I was supposed to gargle and not swallow. Irina was very insistent that I not swallow it . . . It didn’t taste bad, more like a combination of all the more moderate spices you might have in your cupboards. I thought the two of these would do the trick, inasmuch as anything would do the trick more than just sleeping. I was woefully mistaken.
Folk remedy number three involved submerging my feet in steaming hot water until they turned red. Like lobsters. I didn’t know feet could turn that color, actually. And what boiling my feet did to fix my throat, I’m not sure. Maybe the steam from the water? If that’s the case, then I think it was a rather roundabout way of doing it . . .
I was then instructed to don thick socks immediately after concluding my foot bath. After I was safely tucked in bed, Irina came back with a tablespoon and a bottle of vodka. In Russia, vodka fixes everything. “It’s to kill the microbes,” I was told. After swigging down the tablespoon (which is a lot bigger than American tablespoons, I’ll have you know) I had no doubt that vodka could kill just about anything given the right amount. Thus was my first encounter with vodka, and I have to say I wasn’t too impressed. It was like NyQuil, without the cherry flavor.
I was on my way to sleep when Irina popped back in with a tea saucer of crushed garlic which she placed on the top shelf of the bookcase. “It’s to kill the microbes.” I’m not sure about microbes, but I guess it kept the vampires away.
One last time before I was allowed to go to sleep, Irina came back in again, this time to show me what amounted to something like a bed of nails. It was a rubber mat covered in sinister-looking spikes. She apologized that I wouldn’t be using that tonight, since she was also ill and needed it, but she had been using the vacuum-tube therapy all night and was sure to be better by tomorrow, so I should feel free to use it then. Then she toddled off. What, you might ask, is the vacuum-tube therapy? I’m assuming that’s what the mini rubber bell jars affixed to Irina’s chest like the apparatus of a science experiment gone wrong were for.
By two days after my [un]eventful night out, the four o’clock chill, the cigarette smoke, and the ashes I inhaled overwhelmed my immune system. I came down with a pretty sore throat and a headache, really nothing some rest wouldn’t have taken care of. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling Irina that I had a sore throat. After admonishing me for not wearing enough clothes that night, she began administering her ancient Ukrainian folk remedies.
Medicine number one was chamomile tea. Definitely harmless, though I’ve never been a huge fan of chamomile. Medicine number two was some sort of herbal infusion that I was supposed to steep for half an hour. This produced a lime-green liquid that I was supposed to gargle and not swallow. Irina was very insistent that I not swallow it . . . It didn’t taste bad, more like a combination of all the more moderate spices you might have in your cupboards. I thought the two of these would do the trick, inasmuch as anything would do the trick more than just sleeping. I was woefully mistaken.
Folk remedy number three involved submerging my feet in steaming hot water until they turned red. Like lobsters. I didn’t know feet could turn that color, actually. And what boiling my feet did to fix my throat, I’m not sure. Maybe the steam from the water? If that’s the case, then I think it was a rather roundabout way of doing it . . .
I was then instructed to don thick socks immediately after concluding my foot bath. After I was safely tucked in bed, Irina came back with a tablespoon and a bottle of vodka. In Russia, vodka fixes everything. “It’s to kill the microbes,” I was told. After swigging down the tablespoon (which is a lot bigger than American tablespoons, I’ll have you know) I had no doubt that vodka could kill just about anything given the right amount. Thus was my first encounter with vodka, and I have to say I wasn’t too impressed. It was like NyQuil, without the cherry flavor.
I was on my way to sleep when Irina popped back in with a tea saucer of crushed garlic which she placed on the top shelf of the bookcase. “It’s to kill the microbes.” I’m not sure about microbes, but I guess it kept the vampires away.
One last time before I was allowed to go to sleep, Irina came back in again, this time to show me what amounted to something like a bed of nails. It was a rubber mat covered in sinister-looking spikes. She apologized that I wouldn’t be using that tonight, since she was also ill and needed it, but she had been using the vacuum-tube therapy all night and was sure to be better by tomorrow, so I should feel free to use it then. Then she toddled off. What, you might ask, is the vacuum-tube therapy? I’m assuming that’s what the mini rubber bell jars affixed to Irina’s chest like the apparatus of a science experiment gone wrong were for.
Friday, September 19, 2008
29 June 2008: European Cup
According to my journal, I worked all day today. Tonight was the night of the European Cup Final between Germany and Spain. Of course I was rooting for Germany, with a shout out to all my German friends. I was a little disappointed when Spain won, but it was a well-played game. Most interesting was seeing the King of Spain and Angela Merkel shake the hands of all the players at the end. Jacques Rogge, President of the International Olympic Committee, was in the background. I always wondered what he did in the in-between years.
I had a nice time following this tournament. Apparently I don't scream enough, according to Irina. I'm too reserved and need to let out my emotions. Sorry, I didn't know I had emotions about soccer that needed to be let out. Considering all the screaming Irina did (oh, wow is that ironic, just you wait!) I think she has enough emotion for the both of us.
I had a nice time following this tournament. Apparently I don't scream enough, according to Irina. I'm too reserved and need to let out my emotions. Sorry, I didn't know I had emotions about soccer that needed to be let out. Considering all the screaming Irina did (oh, wow is that ironic, just you wait!) I think she has enough emotion for the both of us.
28 June 2008: Шашлик
[Okay, sorry the Hermitage thing got all messed up. I tried to fix it twice, but Blogger wouldn't let me. Argh. This website is impossible to deal with sometimes.]
St. Petersburg lies on the 60th parallel, so the sun displays some insomniac tendencies in the summer. The White Nights are an opportunity to spend all night out on the town. One highlight of this adventure is to watch the famous bridges go up to allow shipping to pass along the Neva. The bridges go up around 2:00 AM, and go back down around 4:00 AM. You’re out of luck if you’re trapped on the wrong side of the river: the metro closes at midnight. Besides the bridges, there are often street performers along the banks of the river, and the buildings are all lit up very nicely. It is during this time that the more romantic side of St. Petersburg really shines through.
This is kind of a huge cultural part of St. Petersburg life, so it was a big to-do for the Brown crew. Karis and I had missed the boat on a few occasions and were anxious to experience this nighttime extravaganza. You can imagine our excitement when Irina told me today that Maxim and his friends were planning a night out on the town and wondered whether we would want to go with. How perfect to have native Russians with us as we brave the city throughout the night.
When I mentioned to Irina that Karis would be stopping over, she asked me if I planned to invite a girl over with my room in the state it was in. What state this was, I could only guess, since it’s generally universal knowledge that I’m no slob. I said it was no trouble. She asked where Karis was planning on staying, since she wouldn’t be able to get
I picked Karis up at the nearest metro stop around ten o’clock. I introduced her to Irina, who offered Karis something to drink. Karis said no thanks, which was clearly the wrong answer as a glass of water was thrust into her hands moments later. Irina asked us why we were hanging out in the kitchen, and why we didn’t go into my bedroom. We said we were comfortable in the kitchen, but Irina insisted. We said it was really okay, but she told us “not to be shy” and giggled a bit as she shooed us off to camp out behind closed doors in my apparently abysmal living quarters. This turned out to be yet another of a long list of instances where Irina exhibited her firm belief that Karis and I were dating.
For reasons I never figured out, Karis and I ended up watching Russian pool and Mongolian war videos until midnight when Maxim’s cohorts finally decided to show up. First stop on our tour of the town was a little grocery store where the Russians bought ten litres of beer for the six of them, plus a bottle of “martini” as they called it. This was the first hint that we were in for a bit more than we bargained.
After an awkward encounter with Maxim’s dad on a bridge in the company of six Russian teens carrying gallons of beer, we headed toward Krestovsky Island, which is in the complete opposite direction of the center of the city. Krestovsky Island is basically a big park on the Gulf of Finland; we’ve been here before. Our crew found a welcoming log, copped a squat, and proceeded to build a fire using old newspapers and whatever bits of twig came handy. Clearly none of the guys were boy scouts, oh, sorry, I meant пиониры. This log we found became my butt’s home until around 5:30 the following morning.
One of the main purposes of this urban camping experience was the making of шашлик (pronounced “shashlik”), or kabobs. The pork (?) had been “marinating” in some unidentifiable liquid in a plastic container which was floating in a plastic bag in the Gulf of Finland. The chef, either Sam or Maxim, prepped by washing his hands in Gulf of Finland water, whose sanitation is more than questionable-- highly doubtful is more like it. He would then grab fistfuls of the sodden meat, squeeze them, and skewer them on metal spikes, also “cleansed” in the Gulf of Finland. The Russian maxim that “fire kills the microbes” seems to have held true as neither Karis nor I became violently ill after consuming this surprisingly tasty snack. It helped to douse it with ketchup, mayonnaise, and some willful ignorance. We were offered beer with our шашлик, which we politely refused, only to be handed some “martini” instead. Karis took a sip, looked like she was going to die, and whispered that it tasted like poison. I took just a drop and yes, it tasted like some abominable mixture of gasoline and bug spray. Throughout the night, our companions noticed that we weren’t drinking it, and admonished me for being “un-Russian.” Well folks, guess what. I’m not Russian.
The night was unfortunately pretty dull. Sam was the most pleasant of the bunch, but you can only talk for so long about why you’ve come to Russia, what you study back home, how long you’ve been taking Russian and so on. We didn’t know enough about Sam, or enough Russian, to ask him too much about himself so conversation died a slow death, leaving us once more with the log.
Maxim was not particularly pleasant that night. He didn’t speak to us at all, and only referenced us as “the Americans.” When he noticed the fire getting low, he decided the best way to re-ignite it was to fan it violently with a paper plate, which accomplished nothing but blowing ash and smoke on everyone. I finally had to ask him to stop, which I don’t imagine he appreciated. By the end of the night, he was pretty wasted. It was kind of disappointing that he was so unfriendly, but only because at that point I was still under the mistaken impression that he was a decent person.
There were a couple of things that livened up the night. Aleg got in an argument with his girlfriend, disappeared into the woods with her, and must have gotten it resolved because they were a great deal friendlier with each other after that. Karis and I took a little walk for something to do, and to get away from the smoke, but were a little uneasy about the feral dogs wandering around. By far the most exciting part of this adventure, though, was when an inebriated Sam decided that the axe was a fun toy, and sliced his finger open. Good thing Karis came prepared with an assortment of bandages.
At the end of the night, we pried our stiff behinds off our chilled log and tossed our unfinished martinis into what remained of the fire. The small explosion made me glad
I didn’t drink it.
The crew. From left to right: Maxim (oh, choice words to be said about him in the future. I want to punch him when I see this picture, but anyway, there you go); Nikita's girlfriend, I forgot her name, but she never said anything all night so you can't really blame me; Nikita, all he said was "That's not Russian"; Svetlana, Aleg's girlfriend (also didn't speak that night); Aleg.
The rest of the crew. Left to right: Sam, Aleg, Karis, Svetlana. You know, I'm not really sure her name was Svetlana, but so many girls are, so she might be too.
Lights on the Gulf of Finland.
The fire that saved me from salmonella.
St. Petersburg lies on the 60th parallel, so the sun displays some insomniac tendencies in the summer. The White Nights are an opportunity to spend all night out on the town. One highlight of this adventure is to watch the famous bridges go up to allow shipping to pass along the Neva. The bridges go up around 2:00 AM, and go back down around 4:00 AM. You’re out of luck if you’re trapped on the wrong side of the river: the metro closes at midnight. Besides the bridges, there are often street performers along the banks of the river, and the buildings are all lit up very nicely. It is during this time that the more romantic side of St. Petersburg really shines through.
This is kind of a huge cultural part of St. Petersburg life, so it was a big to-do for the Brown crew. Karis and I had missed the boat on a few occasions and were anxious to experience this nighttime extravaganza. You can imagine our excitement when Irina told me today that Maxim and his friends were planning a night out on the town and wondered whether we would want to go with. How perfect to have native Russians with us as we brave the city throughout the night.
When I mentioned to Irina that Karis would be stopping over, she asked me if I planned to invite a girl over with my room in the state it was in. What state this was, I could only guess, since it’s generally universal knowledge that I’m no slob. I said it was no trouble. She asked where Karis was planning on staying, since she wouldn’t be able to get
I picked Karis up at the nearest metro stop around ten o’clock. I introduced her to Irina, who offered Karis something to drink. Karis said no thanks, which was clearly the wrong answer as a glass of water was thrust into her hands moments later. Irina asked us why we were hanging out in the kitchen, and why we didn’t go into my bedroom. We said we were comfortable in the kitchen, but Irina insisted. We said it was really okay, but she told us “not to be shy” and giggled a bit as she shooed us off to camp out behind closed doors in my apparently abysmal living quarters. This turned out to be yet another of a long list of instances where Irina exhibited her firm belief that Karis and I were dating.
For reasons I never figured out, Karis and I ended up watching Russian pool and Mongolian war videos until midnight when Maxim’s cohorts finally decided to show up. First stop on our tour of the town was a little grocery store where the Russians bought ten litres of beer for the six of them, plus a bottle of “martini” as they called it. This was the first hint that we were in for a bit more than we bargained.
After an awkward encounter with Maxim’s dad on a bridge in the company of six Russian teens carrying gallons of beer, we headed toward Krestovsky Island, which is in the complete opposite direction of the center of the city. Krestovsky Island is basically a big park on the Gulf of Finland; we’ve been here before. Our crew found a welcoming log, copped a squat, and proceeded to build a fire using old newspapers and whatever bits of twig came handy. Clearly none of the guys were boy scouts, oh, sorry, I meant пиониры. This log we found became my butt’s home until around 5:30 the following morning.
One of the main purposes of this urban camping experience was the making of шашлик (pronounced “shashlik”), or kabobs. The pork (?) had been “marinating” in some unidentifiable liquid in a plastic container which was floating in a plastic bag in the Gulf of Finland. The chef, either Sam or Maxim, prepped by washing his hands in Gulf of Finland water, whose sanitation is more than questionable-- highly doubtful is more like it. He would then grab fistfuls of the sodden meat, squeeze them, and skewer them on metal spikes, also “cleansed” in the Gulf of Finland. The Russian maxim that “fire kills the microbes” seems to have held true as neither Karis nor I became violently ill after consuming this surprisingly tasty snack. It helped to douse it with ketchup, mayonnaise, and some willful ignorance. We were offered beer with our шашлик, which we politely refused, only to be handed some “martini” instead. Karis took a sip, looked like she was going to die, and whispered that it tasted like poison. I took just a drop and yes, it tasted like some abominable mixture of gasoline and bug spray. Throughout the night, our companions noticed that we weren’t drinking it, and admonished me for being “un-Russian.” Well folks, guess what. I’m not Russian.
The night was unfortunately pretty dull. Sam was the most pleasant of the bunch, but you can only talk for so long about why you’ve come to Russia, what you study back home, how long you’ve been taking Russian and so on. We didn’t know enough about Sam, or enough Russian, to ask him too much about himself so conversation died a slow death, leaving us once more with the log.
Maxim was not particularly pleasant that night. He didn’t speak to us at all, and only referenced us as “the Americans.” When he noticed the fire getting low, he decided the best way to re-ignite it was to fan it violently with a paper plate, which accomplished nothing but blowing ash and smoke on everyone. I finally had to ask him to stop, which I don’t imagine he appreciated. By the end of the night, he was pretty wasted. It was kind of disappointing that he was so unfriendly, but only because at that point I was still under the mistaken impression that he was a decent person.
There were a couple of things that livened up the night. Aleg got in an argument with his girlfriend, disappeared into the woods with her, and must have gotten it resolved because they were a great deal friendlier with each other after that. Karis and I took a little walk for something to do, and to get away from the smoke, but were a little uneasy about the feral dogs wandering around. By far the most exciting part of this adventure, though, was when an inebriated Sam decided that the axe was a fun toy, and sliced his finger open. Good thing Karis came prepared with an assortment of bandages.
At the end of the night, we pried our stiff behinds off our chilled log and tossed our unfinished martinis into what remained of the fire. The small explosion made me glad
I didn’t drink it.The crew. From left to right: Maxim (oh, choice words to be said about him in the future. I want to punch him when I see this picture, but anyway, there you go); Nikita's girlfriend, I forgot her name, but she never said anything all night so you can't really blame me; Nikita, all he said was "That's not Russian"; Svetlana, Aleg's girlfriend (also didn't speak that night); Aleg.
The rest of the crew. Left to right: Sam, Aleg, Karis, Svetlana. You know, I'm not really sure her name was Svetlana, but so many girls are, so she might be too.
Lights on the Gulf of Finland.
The fire that saved me from salmonella.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
25 June 2008: Hermitage
[Disclaimer: I’m actually in France now, so this blog is behind by two months and then some. Sorry. When I was frantically packing at the last minute for being in France for the year (I still don’t know why I can’t plan a bit more in advance for this sort of thing) I neglected to pack my journals. Thus, I have only my pictures to guide me and the narratives will become shorter for the moment. I plan to come back and flesh this out after I’ve returned home. So, things may look a little different in a year, though I doubt anyone will come back to notice.]
With our student IDs, we had the opportunity to go to the State Hermitage Museum (a.k.a. the Winter Palace plus adjacent buildings) for free. Ranking art museums can go two ways: physical space occupied by the museum in terms of square footage, or the number of works contained in the museum. By one of these counts, the Hermitage is the second largest art museum in the world, after the Louvre in Paris. By the other count, it surpasses the Louvre. I’m not sure which is which, but there you go.
Daniel and I planned to swing by after classes today, and we were joined by another student from Brown, Nat. We were unpleasantly surprised to found a considerably long line, but I assume that had something to do with the weather. Considering that it was bitterly cold, even by my standards, and windy enough to cause a spectacle of popping umbrellas (it was raining, too), I guess most tourists decided to go inside.
We tried to keep up a cheery mood, but later turned our thoughts to conserving energy. We had the chance to chat with a pleasant woman from Exeter, England, in front of us. She was a bit put out by the weather, but we assured her that it could change on a dime so she shouldn’t worry. She told us that she was in Russia for her husband’s wedding to a Russian woman. I didn’t want to probe, but she seemed a bit less than thrilled at this news.
Once we finally got into the building, our wait wasn’t over. In good Russian fashion, there were four cash registers, but only two with people in them. Once we reached the window, we proudly flashed our student IDs and were on our merry way. Yes, although having student IDs will get you in free, you still have to wait. Lucky for me, no one checked my bag as I brought it through security, so this became the only one of three visits to the Hermitage when I was able to take pictures with reckless abandon.
This is the inner courtyard of the Hermitage. Feeling chilly?
This is a relatively small room by Hermitage standards. It is the Peter the Great memorial chamber. If I remember correctly, this particular room was designed by the same individual who dreamt up St. Isaac’s Cathedral.
If the bountiful artistic masterpieces on the walls and the gilding on the ceilings aren’t enough for you, look down. The parquet floors are stunning.
The Armory Hall, I believe. Very nice.
The imperial throne, last occupied by Nicholas II.
I was so proud of myself at this point. This is a statue of Cupid and Psyche done by Antonio Canova. I thought this piece looked kind of familiar. A quick bit of research reveals that this is the second time Canova sculpted this piece. The first version is housed in the Louvre, where I had a chance to go five years ago.
.JPG)
The Hermitage is so named because Catherine the Great liked to hole herself up in her palace, and built an extra wing so she could secret herself away further. Various tsars and tsarinas after followed her example, adding more wings to the original palace. Nicholas I was the first to convert the Hermitage into a public art museum. The trick was that he was still living in part of the palace, so things were arranged so the palace and the museum were separate. This is a picture of the interior of what used to be the main entrance to the museum.
.JPG)
This is an exact replica of a corridor in the Vatican. It’s nice, but I still think I’d like to go to Rome someday.
.JPG)
Madonna Litta, by Leonardo da Vinci.
.JPG)
Looking out the windows of the palace, one can get a great view of Palace Square, the General Staff Building, and the Alexander Column.
.JPG)
The impressionists and modernists are located on the third floor. Here’s some Picasso for your viewing pleasure.
.JPG)
The Dance, by Henri Matisse.
With our student IDs, we had the opportunity to go to the State Hermitage Museum (a.k.a. the Winter Palace plus adjacent buildings) for free. Ranking art museums can go two ways: physical space occupied by the museum in terms of square footage, or the number of works contained in the museum. By one of these counts, the Hermitage is the second largest art museum in the world, after the Louvre in Paris. By the other count, it surpasses the Louvre. I’m not sure which is which, but there you go.
Daniel and I planned to swing by after classes today, and we were joined by another student from Brown, Nat. We were unpleasantly surprised to found a considerably long line, but I assume that had something to do with the weather. Considering that it was bitterly cold, even by my standards, and windy enough to cause a spectacle of popping umbrellas (it was raining, too), I guess most tourists decided to go inside.
We tried to keep up a cheery mood, but later turned our thoughts to conserving energy. We had the chance to chat with a pleasant woman from Exeter, England, in front of us. She was a bit put out by the weather, but we assured her that it could change on a dime so she shouldn’t worry. She told us that she was in Russia for her husband’s wedding to a Russian woman. I didn’t want to probe, but she seemed a bit less than thrilled at this news.
Once we finally got into the building, our wait wasn’t over. In good Russian fashion, there were four cash registers, but only two with people in them. Once we reached the window, we proudly flashed our student IDs and were on our merry way. Yes, although having student IDs will get you in free, you still have to wait. Lucky for me, no one checked my bag as I brought it through security, so this became the only one of three visits to the Hermitage when I was able to take pictures with reckless abandon.
This is the inner courtyard of the Hermitage. Feeling chilly?
This is a relatively small room by Hermitage standards. It is the Peter the Great memorial chamber. If I remember correctly, this particular room was designed by the same individual who dreamt up St. Isaac’s Cathedral.
If the bountiful artistic masterpieces on the walls and the gilding on the ceilings aren’t enough for you, look down. The parquet floors are stunning. 
The Armory Hall, I believe. Very nice.
The imperial throne, last occupied by Nicholas II.
I was so proud of myself at this point. This is a statue of Cupid and Psyche done by Antonio Canova. I thought this piece looked kind of familiar. A quick bit of research reveals that this is the second time Canova sculpted this piece. The first version is housed in the Louvre, where I had a chance to go five years ago..JPG)
The Hermitage is so named because Catherine the Great liked to hole herself up in her palace, and built an extra wing so she could secret herself away further. Various tsars and tsarinas after followed her example, adding more wings to the original palace. Nicholas I was the first to convert the Hermitage into a public art museum. The trick was that he was still living in part of the palace, so things were arranged so the palace and the museum were separate. This is a picture of the interior of what used to be the main entrance to the museum. .JPG)
This is an exact replica of a corridor in the Vatican. It’s nice, but I still think I’d like to go to Rome someday.
.JPG)
Madonna Litta, by Leonardo da Vinci.
.JPG)
Looking out the windows of the palace, one can get a great view of Palace Square, the General Staff Building, and the Alexander Column..JPG)
The impressionists and modernists are located on the third floor. Here’s some Picasso for your viewing pleasure.
.JPG)
The Dance, by Henri Matisse.
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