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.
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