Beyond the End of the Driveway

10 July 2008: Russian Museum, again

2008-11-24T14:22:00.000-08:00

Another day with our tour guide who is so horribly dull he's rather endearing. I snapped these pictures because they showed up in one of our textbooks once. And they're way too colorful. It's like a sherbet factory exploded.

09 July 2008: Yusopov Palace

2008-11-22T08:25:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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

2008-11-22T08:18:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2008-11-22T06:56:00.000-08:00

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.

06 July 2008: A Walk in the Rain

2008-11-22T06:42:00.000-08:00

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.

05 July 2008: Царское Село

2008-10-04T11:33:00.001-07:00

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.

Part of the lake, and a bridge.

Lake again, with a little getaway house.

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

2008-10-04T10:39:00.000-07:00

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.

02 July 2008: Hermitage, again

2008-09-22T06:22:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-22T06:19:00.000-07:00

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.

30 June 2008: Ukrainian Folk Remedies

2008-09-22T06:18:00.000-07:00

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.

29 June 2008: European Cup

2008-09-19T08:59:00.000-07:00

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.

28 June 2008: Шашлик

2008-09-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

[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.

25 June 2008: Hermitage

2008-09-10T04:47:00.000-07:00

[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.

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.

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.

Madonna Litta, by Leonardo da Vinci.

Looking out the windows of the palace, one can get a great view of Palace Square, the General Staff Building, and the Alexander Column.

The impressionists and modernists are located on the third floor. Here’s some Picasso for your viewing pleasure.

The Dance, by Henri Matisse.

24 June 2008: Crime and Punishment

2008-07-19T02:14:00.000-07:00

Having had to read Crime and Punishment for our culture class, it only made sense to go on a tour through the neighborhood where Dostoevsky and his egomaniacal protagonist lived. Here are some pictures from the excursion. Naturally, it was a melancholy, drizzly mess: perfect for the setting of Crime and Punishment. WARNING: SPOILER ALERT. If you haven't read the book and don't want it ruined, don't read further.

This is the apartment building where Dostoevsky and his brother lived and worked at a print shop they had. If I remember correctly, this is also the building where Sonia (from the novel) lived.

The apartment where Dostoevsky lived while working on Crime and Punishment. I believe his was the one with the balcony. He was a very religious man, and it is said that his preference for apartments on cross-roads came from his religious obsessions.

The plaque that says "In this house, in the years 1864-1867 lived Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. Here was written the novel Crime and Punishment."

Raskolkinov lived in this building, in a tiny little closet of a room with terrible yellow wallpaper. I would have gone a little crazy, too.

This is the building where the old pawnbroker and her sister Lizaveta lived before Raskolkinov bashed in their heads with an axe.

It was on this bridge that Raskolkinov contemplated suicide after his nasty deed.

The tour was interesting, but ended quite abruptly as our professor found a bar he was rather fond of. So that was that.

23 June 2008: Adventures in a Russian Shopping Mall, and Other Stories

2008-07-18T00:27:00.001-07:00

This blog is starting to get a little spare on details. I’m writing about stuff that’s happened about three weeks ago; needless to say, my memory’s a bit fuzzy. I really should have been taking notes all along, but sadly all I have now are my daily journals for Russian class (themselves a bit spare) and my pictures. Lucky for you, this time-lapse view spares you the general decay of my mind. I think I’m catching the Russia. For now, however, my daily journal and my pictures speak only of happy things, so general unpleasantness will be lacking.

I decided to run to the apartment quick after classes today to drop off my computer and stuff before going shopping with Karis and Daniel. As I approached my entrance to the building, I found my way blockaded by a very small, elderly man looking generally confused. I was actually kind of surprised that my coincidental co-entrance with another resident hadn’t happened sooner. I respectfully stood back a few steps so as to let the old man “magnet” himself into the building. (I have four keys: one is a little magnet that lets me into the building, one is a gigantic skeleton key to let me into the gate on our floor, one lets me in the first door of the apartment into a weird little in-between, and the last lets me from the in-between into the apartment.) Well, Little Old Man seemed a bit confused. Actually, Little Old Man seemed not to have a key at all. As I was beginning to wonder how to displace Little Old Man so I could get into the building, hoping to leave him to his thoughts, he noticed me standing there. “Babble, babble, babble?”
“Um, yes, I live here?”
He made a gesture to open the door. The thought crossed my mind that the other residents of the building might not appreciate my letting in a complete stranger, but then he was very old, and very little, so I determined that anyone could handle him if he became unruly. My plan to leave him confused in the stairwell was quickly abandoned as he introduced himself, shook my hand, and started a lengthy story, in the middle of which he stopped to ask me which apartment I lived in. Okay, so maybe two weeks into my stay, I might have taken better notice of that particular detail, but I didn’t, so I made something up. Most unfortunately, my made-up apartment just happened to be the apartment of the woman our little old man was looking for. This led to another long string of questions involving someone named Galya and goodness-knows-what-else. Luckily for me, Irina happened to have introduced me to Galya (an unbelievable tiny, round woman with a pekingese) a few days earlier, so I replied that I did know who this person was. Also lucky for me was the fact that Little Old Man was so absorbed in his various stories that he didn’t notice the blatancy of my statement that I knew the woman I claimed to live with. The possibility of getting out of this without things becoming very awkward was rapidly vanishing when who pops in the front door but Maxim (dressed in his new checkered lilac blazer of which he was so proud.) The look on Maxim’s face translated roughly into “What the *insert favorite expletive*” I quite agreed. Maxim took control of the situation, but I wasn’t quite free, as I wasn’t sure whether it would be rude not to accompany the Little Old Man up twelve flights of stairs. It took a little longer than usual. At the end, he was very thankful for all our help (ha!) and shook our hands. I never really found out much more than I did from the old man. He was a guest of Galya and her husband, who wasn’t home. And that’s all I know.

I met up with Daniel and Karis at the metro station shortly after this little adventure. We made our way to Gostiny Dvor, an arcade-style shopping mall on Nevsky Prospekt. From what I understand, Peter the Great had it built for exactly this purpose (shopping!) back in the 1700s. Our mission: to find Karis a new purse/bag/thing. After finally figuring out how to get into the mall (trickier than you realize), we found ourselves in the “Bag Store.” How convenient! We found everything from tiny (and in my opinion, useless) clutches to gigantic off-road suitcases with built-in compasses, but no bag for Karis. All were either hideous, or outrageously expensive, or more often than not, both. We made our way all around the mall in our quest, to no avail. A side mission was to find some black shoes for me, since I left mine at Brown. Finding shoes that don’t look like they were stolen from a monstrous elf, a smurf, or Crocodile Dundee was kind of challenging. Finding shoes for less than 17,000 rubles (about $680) was even more challenging. We were probably judged a lot for walking through stores in our jeans and T-shirts, but that’s okay . . . we were judging them, too. Russian’s have a very . . . different . . . view of what’s fashionable.

After our failed, but educational expedition into the world of Russian fashion, we made our way back along Nevsky to the metro station. I found a high-end boutique in our city guide and thought, since we had so much fun gawking at the outrageous things in Gostiny Dvor, we might take a gander there. The boutique was appropriately named “Defile.” There was an abundance of articles whose purposes we could not discern. There was one shirt (?) in particular that just about gave Daniel a seizure. I wasn’t too far behind. The X-Files theme in the background was fitting, I think.

We made one last pit-stop before leaving the area. I’d heard of a Lutheran church I kind of wanted to see. Lutherans, in Russia? Sounded interesting, and interesting it was! We saw on the bulletin board outside that services were given in Russian and German. Hm, German. We noticed that the German name for the church was “Schwimmbadkirche” or “Swimming Pool Church.” Also interesting. When we got into the church, we had a heck of a time finding the way into the sanctuary. All we could find were a bunch of bulletin boards featuring pictures of the church from the days when the Commies had turned it into, you guessed it, a swimming pool. I was bound and determined to get in, so I asked the woman working in an office off to the side whether we could look in the church. Funny thing about that . . . in the second between opening my mouth to say something, and actually saying it, my brain pulled a funny little trick. Recalling that the sign outside said services were offered in German, my logic held that the people working in the church would speak German. Also, if the services were in German, then perhaps they would be used to German-speaking people coming in. Further still, I could pass for German to someone who doesn’t know any better. So, tired of not knowing what was going on in general, wanting for once to be in control of conversation, and really wanting to see the church, I did a bad thing: I asked the woman in German. I’m generally against forcing non-native languages on people in their own countries, but I feel slightly vindicated that, at the very least, it wasn’t English. It worked, though, as the woman (who didn’t speak German at all) was generally exasperated enough to just point the way upstairs. The church was laid out in good Lutheran style, that is, not laid out at all. The place was very peaceful, very quiet, and very white. And it still had that swimming pool feel.

One last note from the day concerns Russian superstition. Russians are a very superstitious lot. It leads to a lot of spitting, spinning, and the occasional digestion of “lucky” tramway tickets. As we came out of the church, we saw a black cat run across the path of a man in the square. He jumped. We giggled.

21 June 2008: Петергоф

2008-07-07T05:57:00.001-07:00

Today we had another excursion, this time to Peterhof, summer residence of Peter the Great. It took us about an hour and a half, which, in a bus sans air conditioning, was kind of unconfortable. The palace itself isn't super huge, but the fountains are phenomenal. I've never seen such amazing fountains at a palace before. It's all run without machinery, but utilizes the principles of falling water: water falling from a certain height will automatically want to rise to that same height, so the engineers who made these fountains just diverted water from a high hill far away and let it gush up through the pipes. We got to see the inner workings of this (and got a little wet!), but the pictures aren't very pretty.

The sad thing about visiting palaces in Russia is that they were all largely destroyed during the Second World War, meaning almost everything you see, from the statues, to the interior décor, to the paintings, is a replica, or was taken from somewhere else. The promising implications of this, though, is that there are still some very talented artists in the world whose work can meld seamlessly with the masters of the past. (At least it's seamless to me. I can't tell the difference.)

My first sight upon entering the palace grounds. There were two such towers: one on the guest pavilion, and one on the chapel. If you look closely, the double-headed eagle, the imperial seal of the tsar, stands on top.

The view of the palace from the gardens. The red and yellow things in the middle were big balloons, part of the fountain-starting ceremony that takes place at noon.

The main entrance staircase. Only one woman could go up it at a time, given the size of the dresses. Peter did this on purpose, so that every person coming in would have an initial skepticism about the palace which would slowly develop into awe as they moved further within.

Not my throne.

The main dining room. I guess dinners could last up to eight hours or so. Given that women spent around five hours pruning for the day, that didn't leave a lot of time for much anything else.

This is the wife of Tsar Nicholas I, I think. If this is true, that makes her Empress Charlotte of Prussia. I dont' know anything about her; I just liked the picture.

This is the grotto under the palace and behind the fountains where Peter would carouse with his sailor friends.

The fountain entitled "Samson Tearing the Jaws of the Lion" or some such thing. Samson was the symbol of Peter, like Apollo was the symbol of the Sun King. The lion is supposed to represent King Charles XII (that's a lot of Charles-es), king of Sweden whom Peter defeated in the Northern War of 1700-1721. (See, I pay attention!) Peter started it. The jet of water coming out of this thing is around 60 feet tall. (It comes out of the lion's mouth.)

The palace with the fountains going.

More fountains. The Samson fountain is in the middle.

A nice-looking statue. Apollo? I don't know. Let's say it's Apollo, sound good?

Another pleasant statue. Don't know who this is. Hermes? Eros?

Yay, clouds.

20 June 2008: Аллей Паруса

2008-07-07T05:51:00.000-07:00

"Hey, Drew, how are all the drunken Russians treating you?" "Have you gotten hammered yet?" "How's the vodka?" These are variations on a lot of messages I've been getting from people. I have been responding by explaining that I haven't met any drunk Russians (well, Boris was getting a little goofy, but that was just once . . .) and I haven't even seen any vodka. Something seems to be amiss. This is my standard response . . . until now.

Today was the day of Аллей Паруса (pronounced "alláy parusá"). It is basically a huge party celebrating the end of the school year for all the students. Imagine millions (this is not an exaggeration) of Russians, under the full influence of their favorite beverages, and very excited about the end of the school year, and you start to understand the chaos that descended upon the city. Karis, Dan-Bi, and I went with Galya, Boris, Katya, and Katya's brother Kostia down to the waterfront to await the fireworks. After waiting for an extended period of time, and after suffering the ravings of a very inebriated individual who seemed to harbor a certain displeasure towards Japanese people (which Dan-Bi isn't, by the way), the fireworks finally started . . . just in time for us to leave. I still don't really understand the rationale behind this, but that's okay. The fireworks we saw were very impressive, as was the accompanying light/sound show. They played Sheherezade, which is always a treat. The explosions reverberated throughout the city, setting off car alarms everywhere. Then car alarms set off more car alarms and the whole city rang with the joy of liberated students.

This is a boat. Or a "tall ship." I have no idea what it's called, but it's apparently the symbol of the city and only comes out this one day per year. I don't know where it comes out of, as I don't imagine it is very easy to hide such a ship. I asked what it's called, and someone said Аллей Парусал, but someone else said that that's the name of the celebration, and a third person said both. I looked it up, and it seems to mean a trail of ships, so who knows. As with most things Russian, no one really seems to know what's going on. It was very pretty in any case.

This is a bridge decked out in twinkle lights for the occasion. I was playing with the nighttime features on my camera . . . with limited success at holding it still. I thought this was kind of neat though.

Fireworks! I love fireworks. Please excuse the tree. Please excuse, also, my momentary forgetfulness: a video of the fireworks would have been so much more effective.

19 June 2008: The Russian Museum Part I, a Boat Trip . . . and my Birthday

2008-07-07T05:42:00.001-07:00

Happy birthday to me . . . not that anyone knew. After all, we can't go around giving people more birthdays than they deserve. (There's a funny thing about that, actually. Forgive the long parenthetical, but I forgot when this story actually happened, so I'll stick it here. Irina and I were playing show-and-tell with our passports. That hawk-eyed lady instantly noted my real birthday and proceeded to interrogate me concerning the confusion. "You know," she said, "we would have celebrated it twice." I made a lame Russian joke about having one birthday per year, à la Cheburashka, but she found it humorous. She compensated for my lack of real birthday by giving me a three-hour DVD about St. Petersburg.) Okay, so I guess that's all that was going in that paragraph. Parenthees uneeded.

Today we had class in the Russian Museum for the first time. It was nice to learn about icons, those famous, depressing pictures you see in all Russian churches. Okay, so maybe they're not depressing for everyone, but saints and people always seem so very sad in all of them! Come on folks, cheer up! Our tour guide is really quite endearing in the sense that everyone hates him so much I can't help but like him. He is the stereotypical bone-dry art historian who talks at about sixty words per minute. The variety in length of his "um"s really gets me giggling on the inside sometimes. He knows a lot, clearly, but he talks so slowly. The docents have taken to whispering to us that we should ditch him and wander the museum by ourselves.

This is the oldest icon in the Russian museum. It came from Byzantium, which was the original inspiration for the Russian icon. The distorted facial features and unrealistic proportions are supposed to reflect the other-wordly nature of the subject. They're supposed to be windows into another world, but not a window in the Renaissance sense of perspective, but a window through which the subject looks at you. He didn't have anything to say about why they look so dejected.

Yes, this is a blue rectangle. There is nothing here, so it's best not to try to find anything. My camera was very upset at finding nothing to focus on. This is the sky, perfectly cloudless. So rare here . . .

We had a bit of time after the museum tour to ourselves before the boat tour. Henry knew of a pizzeria he had found in the city guide, so we let him lead us (in a round-about way) there. The pizza was delicious (and cheap!), but the ubiquitous cigarette smoke was irksome. Someone told me they might be outlawing smoking in Russia. I had to laugh at that one.

I made a funny blunder in the restaurant. The waiter came by with a tray of silverware and put it down in front of me before disappearing again. Knowing that I didn't need four sets of silverware, I took mine and started passing the tray just as the waiter descended upon the table once more and scooped it from my hand. So embarrassing. The others tried to console me by saying the restaurant really didn't warrant such service. Can't say it helped much.

Then the boat trip. It was a really nice evening to a really nice day. Here's a picture of the embankment of the Moika river. Pretty typical St. Petersburg view.

This is the St. Nicholas cathedral. I have yet to go exploring here, but would very much like to. I guess it was the only church open during the blockade of WWII.

The sunset was so nice after our boatride that I had to take the opportunity to photograph St. Isaac's. This is a statue of Nicholas I, which stands just behind the cathedral.

Beams of light dancing across the marble pillars . . .

And the cathedral itself. Can't say the picture does its scale justice, but at least I got it in the sun for once.

All in all, it was a pretty nice day. Lots to do with plenty of nice weather. As Karis and I were on our way back to our end of town, Daniel called to wish me a happy birthday, so that was a nice little surprise, especially considering all the confusion. This picture was taken out my bedroom window at about 12:30 AM.

Ah, the tour of consulates continues! Here we have Australia . . .

. . . and the Netherlands . . .

. . . and China . . .

. . . and Italy (well, the visa center, which I assume is the consulate).

18 June 2008: Concert Tickets, again, and a Failed Excursion

2008-07-07T05:36:00.000-07:00

The Mendelssohn, Grieg, Dvorak concert was too tempting to pass up, so I headed back to the concert box-office today. Karis, Daniel, and Benjamin came with, so that was nice. Company's always good.

We had a free afternoon and we were already in the city, so we took to exploring. Irina had mentioned a photo exhibit she'd heard about from a friend, so we decided to go check it out. We got to the address Irina gave me . . . it led through a creepy looking archway into a super shady courtyard. Well, I thought, there are four of us, and I'm confident in our running abilities, so we ventured inside. It turned out to be a movie theater (this country is so random) and the photo exhibit consisted of about a dozen pictures around the lobby. Random, indeed. Some of them were nice, but I wouldn't say it was particularly fascinating. Then again, I don't know how much you can expect . . . in a movie theater lobby.

We'd heard a lot about the Alexander Nevsky Monastery from our teacher, so we decided to head down there. I guess it's super old, founded around the same time as the city itself. The cemetery there is home to St. Petersburg's greats: Dostoevsky, Tchaikovsky, and so on. (Home to? Does that work with dead people?)

When we got there, we were kind of disappointed to see that we had to pay to get in the cemetery. There was a really terrifying woman with an insane amount of frizzy hair, and a similarly impressive lack of teeth, guarding the entrance, so no sneaking in for us. I did manage to snap this picture from the outside, though. Could these be the tombstones of legends? We'll never know.

We were further disappointed when we had to pay to get into the monastery proper as well. Karis tempted the fates by cautiously approaching the main gates. The fates chased her away in the form of a very disgruntled-looking, bearded priest in a black cloak. We gazed forlornly into the river for a bit, and then gave up the expedition all together.

17 June 2008: Concert Tickets

2008-07-01T04:31:00.000-07:00

So, Karis was telling me about this piano concert that her host mother is taking her to. She said that if I were interested, I could find tickets for really cheap at the concert hall box office. She showed me a calendar of events at the hall, and pointed out which concert she was planning to go to. Looks like it’s going to be Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” which I love (really, if you haven’t heard “The Great Gates at Kiev,” it’s a tear-jerker) and Rachmaninoff’s eighth romance for piano. I’m not quite sure I know what that is, so it will be fun to find out!

Looking at the schedule of events, I noticed that the philharmonic would be playing a concert of Mendelssohn (always fun), Grieg’s piano concerto in A minor (Grieg’s also great), and Dvorak’s “Symphony from the New World” (downright awesome). I knew I had to check out prices for this, so I kept it in mind to ask when I went down to the box office.

Well, after classes, it turned out that I wasn’t the only one going down to the box office. I’d say about a dozen people are planning on attending this concert. I don’t know how many of them really know what they’re going to see (one girl asked whether it was experimental music), but more exposure to classical music is always good. I’d say they’re in for a treat.

When we got to the box office, it turned out that the student price for the tickets we ended up purchasing was 100 rubles, or four dollars. Four dollars! Can you imagine? After everyone had bought their tickets, I went up and asked the [very sweet old] ticket agent woman how much for the concert featuring Dvorak and the rest. She said that there were three ticket prices: 100 rubles ($4), 300 rubles ($12), and 400 rubles ($16). I’ll be going back tomorrow to pick up that ticket up, since I was stupid and didn’t bring enough money today.

There was a very pleasant surprise waiting in the box office. Off to the side, there’s the “Chocolate Café” featuring beautiful creations of chocolate, mousse, fruit, and other tempting things; and a gift shop. Inside the gift shop, there was a bass quartet and a soprano giving a little cabaret performance. It was really fun to just happen upon that. Hooray for video! Check it out. (Sorry it got a little shaky in the first one; I was trying to figure out how to zoom in, but I found out you can’t zoom while filming.)

After buying the tickets, we went for a little stroll. This is our friend, Pushkin. This statue stands in front of the main entrance to the Russian museum, right next to the concert hall, and is usually covered with pigeons. Today, Pushkin has traded his pigeon hat for a pigeon parrot, and a pigeon glove.

The Mikhailovsky Palace, these days the Russian Museum. This is the Northern facade.

Our stroll took us to the Summer Gardens again. This is Ceres.

As you can see, it was a lovely day.

16 June 2008: Tsar Nicholas II

2008-06-30T02:32:00.001-07:00

I really don’t have much to report from today. After class, I went to the computer lab to start this blog, actually. You know, it’s kind of weird to pretend these entries are current, when I’m actually writing most of this a week or more later. Hopefully I’ll be able to catch up soon, and I won’t have to keep pretending I don’t know how things are going to turn out . . .

When I got back to the apartment, there was no one home, so I started to settle in to get some work done. Just as I was starting, Daniel called to ask if I wanted to come watch a documentary on Tsar Nicholas II which our teacher had given him to check out. He’s super interested in the life of Nicholas II, which is part of the reason he chose Slavic Studies as a concentration. It’s a good thing he knows a lot about the last tsar, because my comprehension of the film didn’t get much past his favorite food. It’s a very interesting story, as a matter of fact.

Those of you who have read Animal Farm are familiar with Orwell’s depiction of the tsar as a tyrannical despot. Most of us are pretty used to this idea. On the other hand, we have movies like Anastasia where Nicholas is shown in a friendly, fatherly sort of way, and we fear for the royal family as they attempt to flee the revolution. Granted, George Orwell was kind of pessimistic about a lot of things, and we can’t expect a children’s movie to accurately depict anything, but there is something to this bipolar representation of Nicholas. During the Soviet era, propagandists naturally did their best to slander the Romanov dynasty as wretched imperialists. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, however, a lot of information has resurfaced concerning Nicholas II, and many Russians (my teacher included) harbor a very fond image of him. The very fact that the tsar and his family were canonized and the abundance of flowers at their tomb substantiate this change of heart.

As it turns out, Nicholas never wanted to be tsar at all. Once thrown into position, though, he turned out to be quite the change from his despotic predecessors. Nicholas was a deeply religious man who cared a great deal for humanity. He commissioned the construction of many dozens of new churches throughout Russia. One the eve of the first world war, Nicholas, who many have branded as a war-monger, actually convened an international peace conference to try to prevent the coming nightmare. Once the war broke out, his wife, Alexandra, left St. Petersburg to become a nurse. Some scholars like to chastise Nicholas for being poorly educated and ill-prepared for rule. In actuality, Nicholas was quite proficient English, French, and German, and did try very hard to keep things working. The image of a tsar isolated within his palace is also inaccurate, as Nicholas often went out to meet and speak with his people. Only when his family was threatened by the Bolsheviks (which ironically means “majority” even though they were a small party) did Nicholas retreat into the palace.

Well, that got a little long, but truth is always a good thing. No one’s perfect, and I’m sure Nicholas had his share of unfortunate deeds, but it’s good to re-examine these sorts of things and reconcile individuals slighted by history.

15 June 2008: Wonderful Walkabout

2008-06-23T02:46:00.001-07:00

If I slept all day yesterday, and was generally a slothful wretch, then today certainly made up for it.

This wonderful day started out at the Kazan Cathedral. It was a Sunday, so there was a mass going on. We stood for quite a while (there are no chairs in Russian cathedrals) listening to the beautiful music cascading from the choir loft and filling the cavernous room from floor to lofty cupola. After a bit, we walked around and looked at many of the famous Russian icons, the caricatures of saints and the holy family. One very interesting icon featured Tsar Nicholas II and his family, all of whom have been entered into the Orthodox cannon of saints.

After that very pleasant experience, we crossed Nevsky Prospect, the Champs-Elysée of St. Petersburg, to the old Singer Building of Singer Sewing Machine fame. Currently, the building is home to “Дом Книги” or House of Books. We were pretty excited to find the Harry Potter books in Russian, where Harry becomes Garry. I wanted to take a picture, but I don’t think the clerks would have appreciated that too much. There was one book I knew I would buy if I could find it, and I did. Three guesses as to which one it was. The Little Prince. Now I have it in four languages!

I took around 170 pictures throughout the day, so I’ll let them tell the story of the rest of the walk. All in all, it was a wonderful day, and my first great opportunity to see the city.

(Darn Internet put these all out of order, but whatever.)

Maria, the cat. One of the street artists' faithful companion.

View of Gostiny Dvor, shopping arcade. I went there to look for some shoes at one point, but decided that $500 was a little out of my price range.

The Chocolate Museum! Actually, it's really just a store, but I think more people just come to look at the chocolate statues, chess sets, and suits of armor than to actually buy anything.

Arch leading into the Decembrists' Square and the Hermitage. (I was introduced to a monkey here a few days later.)

Kazan Cathedral.

Woman feeding the winged rats, I mean pigeons.

Дом Книги!

Dome on the Дом Книги.

Pillars on the Cathedral

Cathedral again, and St. Peter, maybe?

The Mikhailovsky Castle. Emporer Paul I built it to hide from his mother. Just a thought, but a gigantic castle isn't the best way to secret yourself away. He was murdered here within days of moving in.

In the Summer Gardens.

The Finnish Consulate. Made me miss Minnesota a bit, knowing how many Finns have descended on Duluth this summer . . .

The Swiss and Greek Consulates. Switzerland and Greece, roomies? Who knew?

The eternal flame in the Field of Mars.

Silhouette of the Cathedral on the Spilled Blood.

A statue in the Summer Gardens. Sadly, I've forgotten her name.

The Summer Gardens have been around since Peter's time. They are absolutely beautiful, and populated with all sorts of interesting statues.

Justice.

日本の"consulate"です。

Japanese Consulate plaque.

Vive la France!

French Consulate plaque.

Yes, that is a live bear cub. Karis asked what his name is. "Juice," replied his owner. I have the feeling there was a bit of miscommunication somewhere in there.

Falconet's famous and controversial monument to Peter the Great.

St. Isaac's Cathedral from below.

The Romanian consulate, shot from across the street at a dumpling restaurant.

"Russia. Nation of possibilities." This sign is everywhere.

French institute of St. Petersburg. Weee! Oops, I mean "Oui!"

The Admiralty. (Darn crooked picture, but it's the best I've got.)

The Kunstkammer, home to an array of nature's oddities, including mulit-headed snakes, two-headed calves, and jars containing human foeti. Ew.

An angel perched on some random building.

14 June 2008: Fish, No Chips

2008-06-23T02:27:00.000-07:00

Today I almost quite literally did nothing at all. I got up rather early and waited for Irina to wake up. I didn’t realize that she works on Saturdays. I had thought perhaps we could go for a walk somewhere, but that wasn’t going to happen. She asked what I had planned for the day, and I mentioned taking a stroll around town. “By yourself?” I said yes, but this was most displeasing to her and she told me not to. I decided it would be a good idea to listen to her, so I stayed in all day . . . and slept . . . all day long. I’ll just use the excuse that I was making up for jet-lag.

There was a funny story from today, in spite of my lethargy. Sometime late into the evening, I heard a gleeful shout from the front door. Irina was calling for me to come see something. I hadn’t made it out my door yet before the “something” met me in the form of a very large fish. Alexander is an avid fisherman. He goes out almost everyday to go fishing in the river (whose level of cleanliness is questionable) and sometimes comes back with a weighty catch. I always know when he’s caught something, because I find it in the tub the next morning. Fortunately, the fish is dead and wrapped in a plastic bag, which makes getting it out of the tub easier, but avoiding contact with the fish juices that have leaked out can be kind of tricky.

13 June 2008: Вечеринка!

2008-06-23T02:25:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I forgot to relate this story from yesterday. So funny.

So, birthdays came up in conversation on our walk in the woods, and I happened to mention that mine was on the nineteenth. Well, last Thursday, the 12th, I sat down to breakfast and in comes Irina with a picture book of St. Petersburg and a coffee mug with pictures of important sights on it. "Happy Birthday!" she says and then, in good Russian fashion, wishes me good health, good future, love, happiness, and all that. I thought that was such a sweet gesture, so I didn’t correct her, but I was kind of confused. I thought I had a good idea of when my own birthday was . . .

Later, Dan Bi and I headed to class together, and she shook my hand, saying "Happy Birthday" too. Well, goodness, Irina must have spread the word. And spread the word she did! Dan Bi's whole family knew about it, and decided to give me a present too, along with a heaping helpful of good health, long life, etc, etc. Then, at school, some girl I don't even know came up and asked whether it was my birthday. "No, it's actually next week, but don't tell my family; I don't want them to feel bad."

It didn't take too long after all of this had happened to realize what went wrong. In Russian, the words for twelve and nineteen (and twenty, as it happens) are remarkably similar, and it is most likely the case that Irina heard twelve when I said nineteen. Or rather, when I tried to say nineteen.

So today after class, I asked Dan-Bi if she wanted to go for a walk. She said that would be great, since Katya was going to invite me over anyway, so we could go to their apartment afterwards. Dan-Bi and I headed over to the children’s park where Irina and I went.

When we got to Katya’s place, Katya said “Happy Birthday” and gave me a birthday present, too! It was super sweet. I didn’t tell her it wasn’t my birthday, either, but Dan Bi and I smiled knowingly. So, this was to be my first вечеринка (“vecherinka”) or party. Katya was there with Boris, of course, and there was Dan Bi. There was also a girl named Sasha, I think, but she hardly spoke a word the entire time we were there. I was offered green tea, which was delicious. The bottle of apricot wine came out shortly after that. It was supposedly very good, but I contented myself with my tea. We went into Katya’s room (I think) where Boris had set up his X-Box and Grand Theft Auto IV. Good heavens, what a terrible game. I admit, though, the graphics are very impressive, and the range of freedom within the game is astounding. (Just for kicks, I rolled a garbage can down the road.) Dan-Bi played for a little while, and managed to blow up her car several times by running it into buildings or over highway overpasses. I was offered a try, too. My performance was only a minutely better, as in I didn’t blow anything up. I guess I was avoiding the point of the game, but I tried my best not to kill anyone, with limited success. It was kind of fun, though, when Boris stole a helicopter for me.

Katya asked a lot of questions about my life, hobbies, interests, and what not. I’m afraid my life must seem kind of boring, since I don’t go clubbing, I don’t drink, and I do truly enjoy the peace and quiet. Meanwhile, Boris was having quite the time using his newly-learned word “tipsy” which he was quickly becoming.

I had to leave at midnight, since that was when I told Irina that I’d be back. This picture was taken on my way back to the apartment shortly after midnight.

12 June 2008: Georgian Treat

2008-06-23T02:17:00.000-07:00

Today was a pretty run-of-the-mill day, which means that a lot of quirky, funny things involving cultural miscommunication and general ignorance happened, but I could never relate all of those.

Tonight, Brown treated us to dinner at a Georgian restaurant. What's Georgian food like? I took pictures! There were appetizers involving really yummy (really huge) bread, bean paste with pomegranite seeds, and eggplant rolls with some sort of scrumptious pasty goop inside. The main course was lamb. Sometimes I feel bad, but it's not my fault baby sheep are tasty. There was some strange juice I'd never had before as a beverage, and it was delicious.

I hope it doesn't bother anyone that I don't remember the name of the restaurant. Irina never missed an opportunity to criticize me for not knowing: "You really should pay attention to these things," but then I don't think that it's super important.

We were there for kind of a long time, which was fine except when people started smoking. (The hookahs at left were just for decoration.) I'm spoiled living in a state where smoking inside is illegal. And I'll be even more spoiled next year in a country with similar laws!

So it was around ten or so when I was on my way back to the apartment. This picture was taken between where I live and the institute. Yep, it stays light out super late.

No, I did not get shipped to Siberia. There's some sort of construction zone (surprise!) close to where I live. I guess they don't want people peeking inside. I just liked the juxtaposition of the sense of imprisonment conveyed by the bars and wire with the freedom of the sky beyond . . . ha, gag. Take that, artsy people.

My camera takes video! So exciting. This is what the restaurant looked like. Sorry it's so dark, but the restaurant was rather gloomy. Look at the bread on the table! And yes, that is a wicker spider web on the ceiling.

11 June 2008: A Walk in the Woods

2008-06-23T02:08:00.000-07:00

There is a story about two ambassadors, one American and one Soviet, who hashed out a plan to resolve the intermediate-range nuclear forces treaty while on a walk in the woods. I feel like Irina and I had our own walk in the woods today.

Around 9:30 PM, Irina asked me whether I would like to go for a walk. I said sure, and we set off under the blazing late evening sun. We left the Petrogradsky Island where we live and headed west, onto the Krestovsky Island. We fought our way through one of the many construction zones dotting the city and ended up in a very nice little park. Irina told me that she used to take Maxim there when he was little, but that she hadn’t been there for a very long time. There was a bit of a nature lesson in all of this as well, as Irina told me the names of most of the trees we saw, all of which I promptly forgot. Apparently you can make a delicious tea from the sap (?) of one of the trees, aspen perhaps? That would be good for headaches, in any case! I had a little burst of excitement when I saw a grove of red pines, and rather exuberantly ran over to gawk at them. I don’t know that Irina understood when I tried to explain why those trees were so special to me.

From there, we walked along the edge of the island. The island is mostly a big park, but there are some strange restaurants and clubs tucked away. There’s also an apartment building, which is supposedly one of the most expensive in Europe, called the Five Elements . . . yeah. Along the way, Irina started getting tired. I offered to turn around, but she really wanted to get to the Gulf of Finland, so we kept going. At the end of the park, there is a great view of the gulf. Well, it would be better if they weren’t building a stadium there, but it was still nice.

On the way back, Irina started getting really tired, and had to hold onto my arm for a while. We passed through the park again, this time along a different route, and came upon an amusement park. Random. (Oh, wow, can you imagine Russian carnies?) A man pulled his car up along the sidewalk to ask for directions. Irina didn’t know where he was trying to go, so he gestured to me, standing a bit back from the car, and said, “Maybe he knows.” Irina and I both had a good laugh about that. We tried to hop a ride on the metro, but it was closed, so we made the long trek back to the apartment. We got back at around two in the morning.

This was a really nice opportunity for Irina and me to get to know each other better. For the first couple days, I had been pretty timid, not wanting to get in anyone’s way, or cause too much inconvenience. She was constantly telling me not to be so shy, and to feel at home, but that’s kind of challenging when you don’t really know what’s allowed, or what’s going on. When you can’t even figure out how the toilet works, or when you almost blow up the kitchen trying to get the water heater to turn on, it’s not a great sign that you can “feel at home.” During our walk, she asked why I was so shy, and I tried to explain that it was hard because of the language barrier. Then she told me the story of what led up to my staying with them.

Apparently, the night Galya called wasn’t the first time Irina had heard of a group of Americans coming to the institute. The institute had called her a few weeks ago to see whether she would like to host someone. She said no. She asked her husband and her son whether they would like to have someone stay with them, and they didn’t want to. So basically, when Galya called and Irina agreed, she was conceding to something she never wanted to do in the first place. And she found it odd that I wasn’t feeling at home. Fortunately, she seems to have had a change of heart, since she’s really very nice to me. I feel like Maxim, on the other hand, thinks I’m ignorant; and I think Alexander just tries to avoid me most of the time. Oh well.

I got to learn a lot about Irina’s life, too. She seemed to be pretty open about everything, but I wouldn’t feel right about putting that information here. One thing I will mention, though, is a somewhat surprising tidbit from her education. During the Cold War, I understand that American students were taught to be suspicious of the Soviets and to practice duck-and-cover in case of a nuclear strike (which I still find very humorous). After all, James Bond (though British) was always chasing Russians, and Ronald Reagan was a bit fond of his Evil Empire idea. I’ve always thought that this was all a bit over the top, but then I wasn’t living in the midst of those times and I wasn’t worried about the world being blown to bits.

Irina asked me what people were taught in America during the Cold War, and I mentioned the above. She said that that was too bad. She had always been taught to be tolerant, to reach out to Americans when she had the chance, and to try to make friends. Even still, Irina is very much interested in peaceful cooperation. Kind of makes the red scare and rants about the “domino effect” sound kind of silly.

I was asking her about Russia’s relationship with all of its neighbors (Russia and China border more countries than all the rest), since it would be really interesting to have Finland and Norway on one end of the country, and North Korea and China on another. Of course, this is perfectly normal for someone living in Russia, so Irina couldn’t really say whether it was difficult; it’s just normal. I said it was pretty easy for us, since we only have two neighbors, and we all get along quite well, especially with Canada. She asked whether we needed a visa to get into Canada, and I told her that we didn’t even need passports before September 11th.

When I mentioned that, she got very emotional, and stopped walking. She told me that she cried a lot that day, and that she prayed for us all. She seemed to be on the verge of tears just thinking about it. When I was in Germany, I got similar reactions. I think it wise to consider the implications of this story. Too often, I hear people ranting about anti-Americanism around the world, how everyone “hates us” and how everyone wants to see us dead. I maintain, as I always have, that this is not true. People are people, and they care about each other no matter where they live. I don’t care if we’re talking about September 11th, the train bombing in Madrid, the bus bomb in London, the tsunami, or the earthquake in China: people’s hearts go out to those who hurt. It is a sad day when a country goes on the defensive and assumes that they are alone in a struggle of all against one. I think there are a lot of people who would do well to remember that.

I didn't take any pictures on this trip, but I came back to the children's park with Dan-Bi later. I'm borrowing pictures from that.

Water on the Malaya Neva, the river we crossed to get to the new island.

Part of an old sports complex we passed on the way to the park. At least, I'm pretty sure it was a sports complex; it had the olympic rings on the side.

Green loveliness.

The red pines.

Bus Tour: 10 June 2008

2008-06-17T02:21:00.000-07:00

After classes today we went on an “excursion” through the city. The bus tour lasted about four hours, which according to the tour guide was a very short time in which to see the city. I suppose that’s accurate, but I was so exhausted by the end of it that I went to bed without eating dinner (much to Irina’s dismay) and without even changing clothes.

The excursion took us through the better part of the old city and highlighted many of the more important historical points of interest. I’ll put some of the better pictures here, and I’ll dump the rest in some bucket or other as soon as I can figure out how to do that.

The tour guide was really quite humorous. My favorite of her quips concerned the Russian weather calendar: “Nine months of anticipation and three months of disillusionment.” She said that there are over two hundred days in the year that see rain or snow, and only about twenty-some that are cloud-free. This is certainly no exaggeration. I think meteorologists here must have a very hard time, since the weather is completely unpredictable . . . and I mean completely. It’s best to carry an umbrella and sunglasses together.

Along the way, we stopped at a snazzy gift shop where the clerks offer you coffee, tea, or vodka while you shop. Nothing like some vodka for shopping, I guess. The shop was filled with beautiful матрëшка dolls, chess sets, and all sorts of other souvenirs. I was delighted to find everything was incredibly cheap . . . only to find out that the prices were listed in dollars; in other words, twenty-five times more expensive than I thought.

Like I said, I’ll put some of the better pictures here. It was difficult, since we were in a bus most of the time. As per normal, it was raining, so the raindrops were persistent in getting in on the fun. I had a chance to go back to many of these places to take better pictures, so do not distress if you do not find many here. Oh, and yes, the unevenness does bug me, but formatting on this site is more trouble than it’s worth.

Raindrops on the window, since they were so persistent on getting into the pictures (and my camera . . .)

Chapel within the Peter and Paul Cathedral, dedicated to last Romanov family. Anastasia is on the right.

The Smolny Cathedral, with adjacent monestary. More of Catherine's extravagances, but oh so pretty.

Detail of the wall guarding the sanctuary in the Peter and Paul Cathedral.

HQ of the KGB, Putin's old stomping grounds.

St. Isaac's Cathedral, fourth largest in the world, after St. Peter's in Rome, St. Paul's in London, and Saint Maria del Fiore in Florence.

Church of the Resurrection, a.k.a. Church of the Spilled Blood. Alexander III was fatally wounded by a bomb blast on the square just outside.

Inside the Peter and Paul Cathedral, final resting place of the Romanovs, from Peter the Great, to Nicholas II and his family.

Detail of a dome on the Church of the Spilled Blood.

Peter the Great's first house in his new city. See how modest he was!

One of the many military police wandering around. Makes for a very safe neighborhood.

Detail on the Church of the Spilled Blood.

Our friend Pushkin! Or his bust at any rate . . .

Vladimir Churc, one of few churches left after ol' Stalin destroyed them. What a nice little alter boy he was.

St. Isaac's, towering over the Neva embankment.

A sphinx outside a museum. At some 3,500 years old, it is older than the river itself.

The Odyssey

2008-06-16T02:11:00.000-07:00

In the beginning, there was chaos. That seems to be a trend in history, and my voyage to Russia has been no exception. I regret not being able to write until now, as so much has happened in the last week that it is likely that I won't catch up until I'm already home!

Today I am sitting comfortably in the computer lab of the Невский Институт, enjoying my first opportunity to record this adventure of mine. I would venture to say that I've finally settled into a schedule and that things aren't nearly as nerve-wracking as they were a week ago. A week ago, I was in a very different place, certainly not sitting comfortable anywhere, and hardly knowing what was going on. To be more specific, I was standing in the apartment of a small, babbling Russian woman, clutching a small duffle bag and feeling as though the next seven weeks would be a maelstrom of confusion and frustration. I wish I could say that I wouldn't have believed it, if someone told me all the things I was in for in those days . . . but I felt I had it coming.

Megan dropped me off at the Minneapolis airport after a very pleasant afternoon exploring Fort Snelling State Park. It's a good thing we ate a big lunch that day, because it was going to be a long journey of airplane food, and we all know how delectable that can be. All went well at the airport . . . or so I thought. It wasn't until later that I realized I should have been a little more attentive as the bag-check man did his work. . .

After a long, but comfortable flight, I was probably much too excited to be landing in France for the first time in five years. I would have taken a picture of the gigantic "Bienvenue à Paris" sign, but I quickly became preoccupied with more pressing matters. (Morning over Europe.)

I was ever so proud of myself that I was able to communicate to some officer guarding the terminal transit bus that I did indeed know which terminal I was going to. It would turn out that the trip could be summed up in "Thank God I speak French." Upon arriving at the correct terminal, I was surprised to find no one there. Well, no one except an old Asian lady speaking some language to her daughter (?). I went up to the man working at the counter to ask him how to get on my next flight, since I didn’t see any flights leaving from that area. He told me that I was actually going to have to get checked through passport control into France, and then go to the ticket counter for my airline. When I tried to go through the passport check, I explained to the officer there that I had to go upstairs to my gate. I was pretty sure that repeated what the first guy said. Mr. Border-Check Man decided that I didn’t actually need to go through, but that I could proceed upstairs. Mr. Security Check Man upstairs aptly pointed out that I couldn’t go through the security check without a boarding pass and sent me through a door which ta-da! led me back to Mr. Counter Man. Mr. Counter Man was nice but seemed rather annoyed and said that I did need to go through the passport check, repeating his first speech. Second time around, I didn’t give Mr. Border-Check Man the option of telling me to go somewhere else and (rather abrubtly now that I think of it) shoved my passport at him. Ms. Burly French Customs Woman seemed a little surprised to see me popping in from America without any bags . . . again, funny that this didn't strike me as odd . . .

So then I was in Charles de Gaulle, looking at the masses of people, and the miles of possible check-in areas. Wee! I'm in France! The different airlines in Charles de Gaulle are not labled like they are in American airports, so I wasn't quite sure where to go for my ticketing representative. Ms. Information Lady told me that the Rossiya representative wouldn’t be there until 10:00. It was now around 8:00.

I went to a café and copped a squat for the next two hours. I entertained myself with Crime and Punishment until I simply couldn’t focus on the story any more . . . so about half an hour max. Then it was Spider Solitaire, pin-ball, and watching the children of the airport whiz around (one ran into me) until it was time to go. At one point, a man dropped off some trinkets, a keychain, a pen, on my table. I ignored them, not wanting to get caught up in a scam, until he came by later and collected them again.

When 10:00 came around, I got in an already very long line to go through check-in. When it got to me, I handed the pleasant woman my passport. “Do you speak English?” “Yes, mais je parle français aussi.” So then to French, which I actually preferred, since I knew that they knew what was going on. I'd already been working in garbled unknown for most of the day, so why change the pace? She found my ticket, then she saw that I had baggage checked and asked for my baggage ticket. Hm, it would seem that Mr. Counter Man from Minneapolis, in his enjoyment of our speaking Russian together, forgot that important detail. I, in my pre-Russia anxiety, didn't think to remind him. Pleasant French Woman looked a little dismayed to hear this. It would seem at this point that there was no way to locate my bags, since there was no number.

I asked whether it would be possible to call Northwest and find out what might have happened to them. Pleasant French Man (with bad teeth) seated next to Pleasant French Woman took out what at first glance appeared to be his little black book. I still do not know that this wasn’t his little black book, but it contained some airline phone numbers. The number wasn’t there, so a third French person of the pleasant, though this time markedly hurried, persuasion ran over to the NW ticketing counters. She came back with a phone number and began calling goodness-knows-whom. Meanwhile, Pleasant French Woman #1 is processing everyone else’s boarding passes while I’m stuck awkwardly between PFW1’s line and Pleasant French Man (w/ bad teeth)’s line. Finally, a breakthrough. Hurried French Woman w/ Telephone told me that I should just get my pass so we could know that’s taken care of, and that she would search out my bags and get them on the plane. “Et si on ne les trouvent pas?” (And if no one finds them?”) “On les trouvera.” (“We’ll find them.”) Okay, back through French passport check . . .

. . . and sitting for an hour. I’m sure I dozed off a number of times while the Russians happily completed all their duty-free shopping. When the time came to board the plane to St. Petersburg, I was delighted to see that Hurried Woman and Pleasant Woman were both at the gate area. As the man processed my ticket, he asked whether I was the one who had the lost bags. I said yes, just as Hurried Woman started explaining that they had been found and that they would be sent to Russia, too. I thanked her a “thousand, thousand” times. I wanted to give her a hug, but I don’t think that would have gone well.

The flight was interesting. There was a free seat between me (aisle) and a guy about my age (window) who drank about three glasses of wine over the three hour trip. Then there was the screeching child who was not at all enjoying her trip. I was annoyed at first, but then considered that she might be in pain, with the pressure changes and all. I tried to sleep as much as possible, with moderate success.

And then we landed in St. Petersburg. It was raining. The first thing I saw when coming down the stairs onto the tarmac was a large woman in a green militia uniform. Looking ahead, I saw the word “Rossiya” emblazoned on a very drab building. Welcome to Russia. I made it through the passport check; though I think the lady there was hesitant on letting me in. She called over two of her co-workers so that the three of them could babble in incomprehensible Russian while looking at my passport. They passed me through, and I went to the luggage carousel. Then the fateful moment the luggage track started moving. I didn’t have to wait long until I saw the duffle, in fine condition, and was able to breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, here’s one, the other is surely right behind it. I’ll walk out of this baggage area into the airport proper where there will be a nice-looking woman holding up a sign for me who will then whisk me away to my bubbly babushka’s charming home.” Irony, as one of my friends aptly put it, is a bitch.

The big bag wasn’t right behind it. After the belt stopped moving, I stood there for a bit, dumbfounded. What in the world am I going to do now? I’m in a Russian airport, without a contact, without anyone who speaks English, and I need to figure out where my bag went. Considering the complicated situation of having two airports forget my baggage ticket (and having been stupid enough to forget to ask again), I didn’t have much hope for getting my point across. I glanced over at the lost and found booth quite a few times before I mustered up the courage to engage the woman there. It didn’t go particularly well. She gave me two copies of the same form to fill out (in English, thank goodness) and told me to go talk to the customs agent, whom she pointed out. I gave him my forms; he had me fill out another of the same thing; and then I stood there for a bit as he stamped some dozen or so customs reports. He then took my new form and told me to go see the baggage claim people. First I thought to go out to where the greeters were. Mine was not among them. I went back into the baggage office alone, bracing for the onslaught to come.

Here begins a lot of confused, fast-paced babbling in Russian on the part of the baggage officer, and a lot of retarded stuttering on mine. The lady that was helping me to begin with was joined by another woman, and both asked me about five times each where my baggage ticket was. When I told them I didn’t have one, they asked me to look for it amongst my passport and other papers. They then pointed to the baggage ticket some lady at the next desk was holding. I told them I knew what a baggage ticket was and that I didn’t have one. Finally believing me, they tried to tell me kindly that my bag would not be found. I tried to ask some other way: could they call Paris, could they use my flight numbers, could they use the baggage ticket on the bag I already had? They asked me questions I didn’t understand, and I asked them to wait while I went to check one more time to see if my lady was there. She wasn’t. I went back in.

The following few minutes consisted of awkward staring, broken up by one of the women typing something or other on her computer. Suddenly, a woman in a pink track suit, looking slightly confused, holding a clipboard about to lose its contents any second, burst into the office and asked something about a student from America. I said I was the student and I told her I was trying to find my bags. Her very helpful response was something along the lines of: “Okay, I’ll go wait for you to get done.” I learned shortly thereafter that she doesn’t really speak English, and she wasn’t actually the woman that was supposed to pick me up. The meeting with the baggage people ended with them giving me a small slip of paper with their phone number and a reference code. That was it.

I went out into the waiting area where that lady and I waited for the driver to show up. I kind of went into a shock-trance, thinking of what this meant, and what it would mean if the bag never showed up. First, I would have no clothing, except for the random things Ithrew in the other bag. I would have no toiletries. Plus, the bag itself wasn't exactly cost-efficient, if you catch my meaning. So, loss of bag, necessity of shopping, stinking . . . but above everything else, which could be remedied, although expensive, one thing had me close to panic: my bear was in that bag. I really wasn’t sure what to do with myself when I realized that.

Soon, the lady, whose name I still don’t know, got a phone call from the driver, who turned out to be a very thick-set, grizzly man smoking a cigarette. He reached out for my duffle to carry it to the car. Not really thinking, I still held on to it. By this point, I think I entered a sort of trance, where I needed to hold on to everything that was mine for fear of losing it. I told him, “I can do it.” He said, “So can I.” And he took it.

The ride to the apartment was the epitome of miserable. Between the cigarette smoke; the stench of diesel from the traffic; the abrupt starting, stopping, and change of direction; the fruity smell of the driver’s gum; the queasiness from airplane food; and the fact that I was exhausted, I felt like I was going to throw up. I almost told the driver that I needed to stop. By the time we had stopped, I had lost all feeling in my fingers, except for a strange tingling.

When we finally got to the apartment, I learned that there had been a mix-up, and that another student was already living there. When I walked in, Dan Bi, another Brown student, came out. It was quite a relief to speak English with someone. Katya, the "bubbly babushka" turned out to be about twenty years old; she lives with her mom, Galya. Galya asked us who wanted to stay with her, and who wanted to move just across the street to her friend Irina’s. I said that I would, since Dan Bi had already moved her stuff in there. Katya and her boyfriend Boris asked Dan Bi and I whether we would like to go for a walk with them while Irina prepared her apartment. I agreed to, after I finished the tea Galya was so nice to offer. We went on a nice walk to the old part of the city, which took my mind of the craziness. (Left: Peter and Paul Cathedral, within the Peter and Paul Fortress, heart of the city; Right, spire of the Admiralty and the dome of St. Isaacs Cathedral, across the river.) Then it started raining, which has done off and on since I arrived.

When we came back from our little walk, it was time to move over to Irina’s house (apartment building at left). Enter scene in which I am ushered through a door, greeted by much excited Russian, and pushed around the apartment like a cow. Irina is a round, very bubbly person with a son who’s just graduating, and a husband I can’t understand. None speak English. It was a very confused evening. I broke the toilet, which was horribly embarrassing, but Irina fixed it. I may have nearly ruined the water heating system, which is controlled by a sinister-looking box in the kitchen in which flames are visible. Not much happened that night, as I was much too exhausted to even attempt conversation, but Irina asked if I couldn’t stay up a little longer to meet her son. I went to bed around midnight. And woke up again at four. This pattern has held for the short time I’ve been here.

The following day was the first day of class. We had Russian for three hours straight. At this rate, I should think I’ll be able to improve by the end of seven weeks. Afterwards, I spoke with the professor from Brown to ask him to help me locate my bag. I gave him all my information and the phone number to the airport. He told me he would do his best.

After school that day, I came back to the apartment, ate some noodles Irina had made (she’s always feeding me!) and laid down for a nap. Irina woke me up a bit later to tell me "babble babble suitcase babble babble phone call babble." I feared the worst and sort of started shutting down. Then she said more "babble babble Galya’s house, babble babble, coming, babble babble, pick up." They found it?!? She said yes. Later that evening, I went over to Galya’s and found my bag. I was so happy to finally brush my teeth, shower, get new underwear, and give my bear a hug.

Since then, things have been going much more smoothly. The first week consisted mostly of Irina saying, "Don't be so quiet" "Why are you so frightened?" and "Eat more." Most of what I said over that period was "I don't know" "I don't understand" and "I can't possibly eat any more." But there are more stories than this, and more pictures, which will come soon.