Vyborg

We missed the train we wanted by 3 minutes. 

This was just the start of our Vyborg adventures, which also included us losing a very large garden and wandering through a burnt out communal farm instead. Perhaps this was our first sign--but I must say, the adventure we ended up taking was far more fun than if we had actually seen everything we meant to. 

If people appreciated serendipity more, they might find life a little less hard to bear. That’s the great thing about having a flexible travel companion--complications simply become a new adventure...

Despite my (and Samantha’s) attempts to will the metro to move faster, and us setting our meeting time earlier than we thought necessary, we still arrived at the ticket counter just in time to watch the elektrichka for Vyborg leave...without us. But the good thing about Russia’s commuter trains is they leave just about hourly, which means things like this just mean a different adventure. Being a little late for the first train, when there will be one in another hour, gave us time to explore a different part of Petersburg.

Following a grocery store adventure, we returned to the station with a new knowledge of discount mathematics, and caught the 9:30 train...and some sleep, until we met our first curious person; a very kind, elderly Russian pensioner, who was headed to his dacha for the weekend. I was struck by his gentility and polite curiosity about us, as well as his helpful nature. He gave us many suggestions of what we must see surrounding Petersburg, and was excited to hear how we were enjoying his country. 

After he left at his stop, Samantha and I were discussing what a kind gentleman he was when we heard an exclamation from a fellow American, “Hey! That's English! You girls are Americans! Don’t mind if I sit here. I’ve been surrounded by Russians since I got married.”

And so began our reverse culture shock, as this middle aged American plopped down next to us and immediately said, “I got a daughter you kids age. What in hell are you doing over here? She’s back in America where she should be. I’m here cause I had to buy an expensive new apartment for my new Russian wife.”

And so we listened in mild shock as he told us of his adventures with his new wife, his monetary affairs (and his wife’s monetary affairs, who despite her Ph.D, is underpaid), as well as how she,  “picked me to marry, not the other way around--I wouldn’t have one of those mail order brides!”

We quipped we were CIA agents and he almost shouted, “well, young ladies, I hope not! Edward Snowden is my hero, in this corrupt age of politics.” Samantha and I grimaced--we could feel the curious glance of the surrounding Russians. It was a far cry from our norm of unobtrusively blending in! It also underlined a crucial cultural difference--where the line between friendly openness crosses into borderline obnoxious territory...

So we were relieved to wave goodbye to our new acquaintance at Vyborg--though of course, we ran into him later at the castle. Vyborg is too small of town not to accidentally pass and repass people.

Actually, I can’t believe I just called a city of 40,000 people, with a castle dating from the 13th century, a small town! I guess it’s all in perspective. But life in Vyborg moves a bit slower than in Petersburg, and the people seemed a little bit more open--though perhaps it was just because beautiful sunny weather calls out the best in people.     Neither of us had thought to grab a map before departing Petersburg, so we asked around and found the tourism building and got an English and a Russian map.

Next we found a beautiful church, which surprisingly had some stained glass--even though it was in the garden rather than in the church itself. (Stained glass is not a part of Eastern Orthodox church design--the icons and frescos rather take their place). From the church we walked along the little inlet and bay, admiring the water and the view of the island castle and fortifications which commanded the city .

That fort was a bone of contention in 1296, when the Swedes built it on Novgorodian land, and remained one through WWII, when the Soviets struggled to secure Vyborg from the Finns, to secure some kind of passage from besieged Leningrad. This city, with its calm dark harbors and rich forest land, was the sight of some of the biggest naval battles in the world...Everything in Vyborg seems just a little foreign--the lovely Swedish architecture, the extra signs in Finnish and Swedish for remaining speakers of the language; nothing is purely Russian. Except the people, whose energetic and friendly directions, while appreciated, got us lost. Vyborg is known also for a famous park and gardens--but despite a map, and the best efforts of a very helpful 10 year old boy, we managed to wander without success. I'm not sure if the error lies with us or our impromptu guide--I'm inclined to say directions like, "Oh! it's simple--take a right, then a right, then a right onto a different road--and then straight, straight and straight, and then left. Then over the bridge, straight and straight and right....." may have complicated the situation a little. Despite understanding the directions, there was clearly no way we would find the gardens, and so after 30 minutes (and discovering the drug den side of Vyborg) we gave up. 
While walking back to the train station, we happened upon a Russian Orthodox church dedicated to an interesting person--a former student of Martin Luther, who studied with him during the Reformation, and returned to Vyborg and remained a force for literacy and reform even as the city was traded from Russian to Sweden and back again.
Surveying the city from the castle tower, I concluded I would rather not besiege Vyborg anytime soon...however I’d be happy to return!

Marzipan and Novgorod

Shocking development: I may be in love with a candy store. My affair with marzipan, that almondy, sugary manna from Heaven (or Germany, depending on trade laws), lists among my downfalls. I would probably sell a kingdom for a lifetime supply of marzipan...But this kind of obsessive, self destructive love isn’t necessary anymore, because marzipan clearly loves me back. The Krupskoi candy store now sells little marzipan fruits--I go there and buy two daily, as well as assorted Russian chocolates. Marzipan clearly makes the world go round, because it has introduced me to two new friends (well, acquaintances, but I adore them since they enable my marzipan habit). There is the younger candy store lady, and the older one; to me, they exemplify all that is good and sweet about Russian women. They tolerate strange linguistic mistakes (or just plain mental failures: I can’t seem to wrap my mind around the metric system and keep ordering hundreds of kilograms of candy instead of grams). But most of all, they now greet us with a sincere smile as we meet them, and they have begun asking questions about us. My day is always made better when I get to have a conversation with my marzipan ladies-- by now, they know exactly what we will buy, and grin as we sheepishly ask fro more marzipan. Their unfailing pleasantry and growing genuine interest reminds me of what I love about this country: Russia is committed to a sincerity of feeling, not to keeping up appearances. 

(A side note to any bakers who might stumble across this. Chocolate roses exist....why not marzipan roses??) 

Do not tell Krupskoi Chocolates that I am seeing an unnamed shawarma place on the side. But woman cannot live on marzipan alone, and so Samantha, April and I have begun our pilgrimage to the mecca of meat that is this shawarma place. They know our orders by now (without vegetables, with potatoes) and our faces. The boy sees us, grins, and grabs lavash to start making our shawarma. The girl who works the cash register has warmed up and asks us about our days, and teases us about always ordering the same thing. She is another example of the warm heart underneath that aloof Russian expression, and I enjoy knowing enough Russian to slowly see these genuine moments coming to life.

My host Anna is perhaps the best example of this sweet, giving spirit. She put the most effort into giving me a lovely birthday...although it was the strangest birthday dinner I have ever eaten: Russian sushi, complete with cream cheese. At least she didn’t buy me the chocolate sushi rolls, or the bacon wrapped sushi, or the sushi with pizza...

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The old town of Novgorod had only been besieged twice in its long history, and successfully taken only by the Swedes and fascists. That all changed on June 28th, which marked the invasion of the brides...and me. I don’t have photo evidence of the women in white, but the other members of my group can vouch; apparently marriage at historical sites is quite popular in Russia! I enjoyed watching a Lenin statue preside over one marriage in particular (mainly because of all the “Soviet Union” jokes I knew I would make...)

Perhaps it is the Church of St. Paraskevi responsible for all this. In local myth it is supposed to bring good luck to girls; I ran around it three times, as one must do, before actually realizing that ‘good luck’ probably just meant marriage to the old Novgorodians... Either way, the ladies of the city were wandering about in holy matrimony!

An Excellent Birthday

So I think I’m a pretty lucky girl, getting to turn 20 in Russia--the land of adventures, new friends, and lower drinking ages! We began by exploring the ostensibly “Mexican” cuisine of Petersburg. (It reminded me of getting Tex-Mex for my birthday in Texas, except it was Russian, and therefore indefinably stranger somehow. They also put dill and mushrooms in it...) Honestly, it was like being in the Twilight Zone of restaurants--the menus and decor were familiar, but lacking a better description, somehow Russian. It was surreal ordering mexican food in a language other than Spanish or english. I can’t decide if my favorite part of the hybrid ambiance was the costumes of the waiters or the american pop songs from 20 years ago translated into Spanish blaring over the speaker system. There was only one other group there, celebrating a birthday (and possibly an engagement, because they played the wedding march at one point). This may be due to the lack of TVs; Tres Amigos was the only place not invaded by soccer fans watching the World Cup game. I ended up being serenaded for my birthday with a russian-accented version of “Cumpleaños Feliz” (and a spontaneous bit of “Happy Birthday” in English from the toast-drunk table on our right.)

Having escaped this strange island of Mexican food filtered through too many cultures, we walked back to the university to wait for another friend coming to join us. The evening light was beautiful and warm, and we watched the lowering sun light up the griffins on the Banker’s bridge, while listening to distant groups of Russian jamming out to their guitars.This peace was not to last, because the we were located by our first Very Interesting Person of the evening--Vladimir, a drunk Russian who was only too thrilled to meet Americans “who actually talk English!” (as opposed to what?) Luckily, our third person soon appeared, and we made our first well-timed exit of the evening, leaving Vladimir to his lamentations. And so we began our journey down Dumskaya street--even though it sounds like doom, it doesn’t actually mean it (at least for us three)! Keeping the latin theme, we put in our first official celebratory appearance at Fidel bar...where the good dictator Castro reposed above the dance floor. I think the capitalist music of high school American dances might have offended him, as well as the rather sad disco ball.

A note on Russian clubs--I intend to make a more detailed and objective study later, but I was mostly struck by the very metro and European appearance of the male patrons here. Also, I really enjoyed the attention we three girls got from said metro males, after all, who doesn’t want to bask in attention on their birthday? Perhaps it was too loud for good conversation, but it was fun talking to a polite German our age, and interesting having Russians attempt to buy us drinks. We tired of pop,locking and dropping it under the gaze of a dictator...

And so, we proceeded in the twilight to the karaoke bar Poison--an auspicious name for an auspicious night! It started off a quiet night, but we set the bar high by singing “Drops of Jupiter.” As we were flipping through the karaoke selection, I saw “I Could Have Danced All Night,” from the musical My Fair Lady. Being me, I couldn’t resist an opportunity to show off...I loved watching assorted Russians wander in to listen, and seeing a few drunken waltz steps! (And who doesn’t need a standing ovation on their birthday?) It payed off in more ways than one, because soon my friends and I were being courted by some impressed duet partners! The most memorable of these was Mitya, an electronic dance DJ who managed to mimic the lead singer of the Cure while being a half-step flat...If I had been the “waitress in a cocktail bar” the song referenced, he’d have had a drink in his face. (I hope I’m not actually a karaoke snob though!)

Other than all that applause, there’s no better feeling than finding strange typos in the karaoke bars song list--I would love to sing some of these new versions, especially “2000 miles” by the Proclaimers (instead of 500 miles) because if I did actually walk that far, with some swimming included, I think I would make it most of the way to my American friends. (To misquote my favourite hobbit: I definitely missed half of you half as much as you’d like, and a few of you more than you deserved ;) !)However, I’m not sure you all could have jammed out to I Love Rock n’ Roll quite the same as Samantha, April and I! 

After clearly winning at karaoke, we began our walk home in the 400 am sunlight...and met our final challenge for the evening: the Algerian Lovers. Reduced by our combined stunning American good looks, they began to chatter with us, and asked us to take pictures with their foreign flag. I particularly enjoyed being told how pretty I was...until Ahmid added that I would really love his family in Algeria, and that, “I am modern man! You would be happy with me!”

In conclusion, I escaped my 20th birthday without getting abducted, or engaged, and even got to sing! 

The First Two Nights at the Opera

Those of us in love with the emotion, beauty and drama of opera often talk about its universal appeal; here in St. Petersburg, it seems it is universally attended--by Russians of all ages and stations, as well as by tourists. The halls of the Mikhailovsky theater were filled with the murmur of Russians chattering as they took their coats to the cloakroom. In the beginning of a chilly summer, it was still necessary to wear a jacket to the theatre if you were walking any distance. Plus, there is something very dignified about checking your coat in a cloakroom, and it is that much easier to show off your finery that way. Even in my 450 ruble (15 dollar) seats, people were dressed to impress in cocktail dresses and even black tie attire! I loved the opportunity to dress up, but I couldn’t help but notice when I arrived at the theater that the yellow striped dress I had worn matched the building’s facade...sort of.

The staging of the production itself was extremely intriguing; the director had chose to move the setting forward into Soviet era times, while maintaing tsarist symbolism--in the final act, he even indicted the power structure of the current Russian state. I thought it was an appropriate political observation, and since Rimsky-Korsakov was involved in the student revolution of 1905, I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded emphasizing overbearing power, like that of a tsar, or an apparatchik...or a president. Lead characters often had some distinctive feature about their Soviet-era costume which connected them to a chorus member symbolically dressed in correlating clothing from history. The children’s chorus, attired in period costume, would be acting out the scene as the soviet-era characters performed the part. Characters designated as oprichniki were dressed in what can only be described as secret service suits, but also dog’s head badges, in an connection to the tradition of carrying a severed dogs heads from Ivan the Terrible’s time. The chorus costumes alternated between traditional Russian costumes and Soviet dress; in this way, the director managed to connect the overarching theme of autocratic rule from past, through soviet times, even through the present. 

While in theory a very intricate staging, in practice it was laughable at times. The hilarity began with a light person, dressed completely in black, spotlighting the opening number while directly on stage, which gave the production a somewhat haphazard air. Changes of scene were occasionally indicated by chorus members carrying giant white words across the stage; this was often mystifying...a sign saying ‘Novgorod’ makes sense, as it is a town name, but the reoccurring sign stating “honey”, that wandered across stage seemingly at random made the Russians around me (and me) giggle a bit. The high point of ridiculousness, however, was during Lykov’s Act 3 aria, celebrating his love to Marfa--a flashing marquee sign stating ‘lyubov” (or love) descended to the stage and he and Marfa climbed up on ladders held by chorus members, all while a very groovy 70’s floral pattern was projected onto the stage...

The voices of the company were all really excellent, and the director payed perfect attention to the lyricism of the work. Rimsky-Korsakov was writing in reaction to Wagnerian opera at the time, and therefore his work is focused on melody, and incorporates many folk themes. It frequently references the Classical period, especially in the first 2 acts--it is structurally much closer to Mozart, with defined recit and aria, a focus on melody, and arpeggiated accompaniment. It is clearly Romantic, in the influence of folk melody and themes and the size of the voices and music--and Marfa’s mad scene also echoed earlier Romanticism. The writing for chorus was spectacular, and the chorus even received applause after particularly rousing numbers. A high point was certainly Lyubasha’s aria in act 1, folk-style and completely acapella; I thought the warmth and agility of the mezzo-soprano particularly emphasized the natural lament which Rimsky-Korsakov sought to recreate. I was also most impressed with the soprano’s voice and acting; she portrayed Marfa beautifully, and had a really lovely spinto quality in her voice. She perhaps overpowered the tenor playing her love interest Lykov, but his charisma and lovely voice made it an unimportant flaw. As one would expect in Russia, the bass and baritone roles were performed to perfection.

I won’t ruin the ending for you, but I will say that I love the opera, and wish it would make an appearance in American repertoire more often! It is very exciting, and beautifully written--and the rest of the audience agreed with me. We applauded (in perfect rhythm, as is common in Russia) for about 5 minutes after the bows!

Apparently, I can’t avoid matching something at an opera, but when I saw Aida at least I didn’t match the building! April and I both wore purple dresses, which may have been the highlight of the evening...I am not superstitious, but I am beginning to think the opera Aida may be my family’s version of The Scottish Play. Every time I get tickets, bad things happen. In Switzerland, my mom broke her knee, and here, my dad wrote me right after I bought my ticket that she had chipped her wrist. Despite it being a Mariinsky Theater production, and rather excellent, it didn’t quite make up for the incurred bad luck.  It was in the Concert Hall of the theater complex, which meant that it was performed in a theater in the round--which perhaps isn’t the best venue for Verdi operas I believe with this in mind, the production was staged in a much more modern manner. I managed to get lost very quickly and spend a sad amount of time reading my program to follow the plot--and this despite having seen Aida before!! Much of the lighting was done directly beneath the actors, and the chorus was on stage all the time--which meant the theater was always lit enough to read a program. This unenviable combination of high lighting and a shuffling chorus just made the shimmering, magic moments of opera disappear. I underestimated how much I value a dark stage, the image of characters entering and exiting, and how integral purpose still is to operatic acting.

The costumes may have saved the night for me. It never would have occurred to me to outfit the chorus in such sci-fi gear. An ostensibly ‘Egyptian’ chorus was dressed in what appeared to be cut apart disco balls, shaped into French army hats and Jar Jar Binks ears, and armed with tinfoil swords and shields. It was as if Verdi’s opera had been transported to Star Wars, the planet Tatooine in particular. The Ethiopian soldiers were represented with cringe-inducing masks, reminiscent of R2D2 costumes fashioned from the remains of a sliced-apart cardboard 6 pack and colored blue. (I’m still trying to determine if this was inadvertently racist. Due to the bizarre ‘ears’ attached to them, I’m leaning towards ‘definitely’--but in Switzerland Aida actually sang in blackface so...perhaps it’s cultural staging?). Amneris hair was arranged in one of Padme’s hairstyles, and of course, Aida had buns and braids exactly like Princess Leia. So, I was saddened when the tenor was not dressed like Han Solo, but I thought Radames did an admirable job rocking his new drop-crotch look. I was disappointed that he didn’t drop some beats in those pants. 

The singing was of a high quality, if a bit scaled back for the hall. I have a feeling it was a very difficult place to sing in due to the size and round structure. However, I was so distracted by the movement, shuffling and confused staging of the pieces, that I’m left with really little impression of the music. It being Verdi, of course there were moments of transporting brilliance, but I am left with little to say about them--I was usually looking around the hall, at the chorus, or at my program. I did find the mezzo’s voice far too covered, and I think her Italian had a Russian accent, in contrast to the rest of the company. Aida herself had a lovely warm soprano tone, but there were definitely moments she didn’t carry over the orchestra, however her presence on stage was so graceful and beautiful this mattered little. My main memory of Radames is centered on his fascinating costume of drop-crotch pants.

The best part of Aida was having my friend April along to giggle at the intriguing production! In conclusion, right now I love the Mikhailovsky theater more than the Mariinsky--which I will prove when I sing the praises of their production of L'elisir d'amore!

A Scattering of Events

On my wanderings through the city, I retrace my favorite steps, looking for moments which I may have lost. I’m young, so I shouldn’t be losing moments yet, but I find that that old magic of seeing something new slips away. I think its dangerous only to see grime and still air of the city, so I cling to glimpses of beauty--someone’s piano practice drifts to the street, or a soft breeze wanders down the alley from the Baltic. So, each time I pass a corner I try to see something new. Today I discovered the abandoned school of wartime medicine, just a street over from my apartment. But instead of seeing the Admiralty spire glittering from there, I can only see an old smokestack of a factory. It’s as if I am in an entirely different city. The stately wrought iron here is wrapped in barbed wire, and the elegant pillars of the fence crumble from long decades and a war that isn’t as distant in memory as we like to think. The romantic in me can imagine a Petersburg with determined men smoking and leaning against the crumbling fence, chatting up the citizen’s patrol girls, their hair pinned in kerchiefs...

I have found several of these bureaucratic buildings, languishing in a prior era. They are locked in a much grimmer time than the glimmering, 19th century high society evoked by Nevsky Prospekt. Some are museums which no one cares to visit, others are simply forgotten, waiting fruitless for attention. A part of me grins smugly at the thought that they finally stand in line for restoration like the many souls who once queued up within them. This place is surreal enough that I feel, if I walk by often enough, I will uncover some Orwellian bureaucracy for love, or dreams, hidden in the rampant lilacs overgrowing barbed wire and crumbling stone. If I did, I would stand in line with the ghosts to see the head of the department in charge of distributing dreams. I have had too many strange ones since coming here, and I feel the need to bring this to their attention. Since I don’t actually live in Petersburg, or in a novel set in Petersburg, I should be exempt from their surreal jurisdiction. In fact, this whole ‘strange dream’ thing should have gone out of style with Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov--or even before him, with Pushkin and his poor Yevgenii’s mad vision of Peter galloping after him on a bronze horse. But it wouldn’t be the Petersburg experience if the short nights didn’t leave me bewildered. I have a recurring dream that I have the Midas touch--except it is the touch of time, or maybe death, for everyone I touch becomes dust...It’s distressing to see those you long to touch dissolve if you so much as take their hands.

It is probably just a fever dream from my summer cold. I must have caught one traveling, or wandering through the city. Russians seem to think I caught it from the draught, despite it being summer. When I enter a room and mention I am sick with a cold, they fret and close the door and window and discuss the evils of moving air...

I might actually be sweating tea now, I’ve been drinking so much of it. Tea and honey cures everything here; as does boiled milk. So does wearing socks in the house. If it can’t be cured by tea, there’s the apteka--our pharmacy, their apothecary. Going in one does make me think of magic, since you can buy antibiotics and all sorts of things over the counter!

For those of you familiar with Dostoevsky, and wondering about me, I don’t think this is a physical manifestation of some other illness. I think I’m too happy to be actually home-sick. 

The thought has entered my mind that I have somehow contracted consumption, and am now living in a novel. I think, I must take a week off from class to go take the waters in the Caucasus and meet an officer in the tsar’s army...

Now that I am here in Petersburg, studying the language, I have suddenly become preoccupied with the Caucasus. It doesn’t help that I’m reading Lermontov, and that I made an acquaintance who also loves that region. As we go over ordinal numbers, boring, ordinary ordinal numbers, I stare out the window and image galloping on a fine chestnut horse through Caucasian mountains--in my mind, they aren’t so different from my Montana ones. I also doodle frequently to try and keep my mind somewhat present; I’m glad the only one my teacher noticed was my line drawing of Alexander S. Pushkin. 

I think Oksana, my teacher, understands I’m a bit bored. However, listening to her voice is one of the treats in my day--it’s like silk. Her pronunciation of is delicate--in fact, all of her is delicate, as if she were made of Russian porcelain, down to her artfully painted face and her dark, sleek hair. By comparison I feel showy, brassy, or somehow wild and not entirely collected. I’m not the most attentive student, but she laughs when I joke or chatter in class, since I do so in Russian.. She, like most people I talk to here, commented on my hair--it intrigues me that they all consider it to be reddish, or ‘rijzhe’. It’s not like I know what color it is in English either...

This is a very musical city. I was walking one evening and heard the strains of a Mozart piano sonatina drifting on the breeze. Of course, I stopped to listen; whoever it was played with true feeling. I know from my pianist friends, it is tempting to play Mozart with the panache of Beethoven, but this pianist must have been a kindred spirit. I stood below the window, following a melody home in my mind. It was perfectly uplifting and melancholy at once, an imagined reunion of melody and harmony.  Of course, I hadn’t noticed the older man in a grey suit who had also stopped to listen, and of course,  I ran into him as I turned to go. I apologized, but he hushed me and said, “It’s nothing, since you were listening well.”

I think as a general rule, Russians do listen well. I saw my first Russian opera live last night, The Tsar’s Bride. It was as fabulous as expected! (I promise I’ll write an actual blog entry on it)

I like to lodge a complaint against my brain. I have regressed to actually speaking English like a little kid, and of course my Russian is barely reaching little kid level. This makes communicating with anyone (and anything) remarkably difficult. In example, I recently said in English, “I know, the other person I have run into having read that book is myself, I mean, only me.” The faux pas in Russian are beyond counting... poor Anna is living in a comedy show with the moronic things I say. In class it’s even worse occasionally, and I feel for our teacher as the students mangle her language-- people become objects, we fail to decline nouns, we make men feminine and women neuter. I have concluded I should just speak less and carry a whiteboard to write on. But even writing is difficult; my first draft of this read ‘apartment’ instead of ‘department’ in all my discussions of bureaucracy. 

The museum internship is a surreal experience because I am translating from home. I haven’t done anything that seems like adult work. I finished half of one translation in a week, and while slow, this wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t broken the internet at the apartment. I am now translating, and writing, out of a MacExpress (MacDonalds) which blasts horrific American music from the early 2000‘s--I somehow know all the words, despite thinking I’ve never heard the music before...I inevitably end up with fragments of lyrics in my translation.

Regarding translation, I had an epiphany at a Georgian restaurant today; in fact, I may have found my true calling...I am supposed to find and eat at every little restaurant in St. Petersburg, and peruse the English menus. Apparently, Russians eat ‘Julienne with chicken‘ (poor Julienne) or ‘pork (a cervical part)’. I love to eat, and I can actually read the Russian menus, so it would hardly be work at all. Maybe they’d let me eat for free in exchange for translating them!! But somehow, it saddens me to think the somewhat indecipherable ‘shrimps, which moves in a puff small baske’, might eventually read, ‘shrimp served in a basket.’ It takes away some of the secrecy of the menu...

Side note: Today is also Father's day, and I really miss my dad! 

Soon to come: A Musical Review of Tsar's Bride, and the strange international choral festival on Russia Day. 

Nights on the Neva

I love the magic of twilight. For me, in all its beauty and uncertainty, it is the perfect time to reflect. At the meeting of light and dark, I like to walk softly and see the gradual change in character as Petersburg slips into shades of dark blue and softens her imperial mask, the buildings awash in gold streetlights. These dwindling hours of twilight here are when everyone in the city emerges to savor the gentle embrace of air ruffled by sea breezes and a sky never fully black. It isn’t a real night, but it is full of energy, a kind of animal buzzing. The rustling of the woods, and the brilliance of stars in Montana dusk is replaced here with the chatter of many languages and the clatter of dress shoes and perilous high heels. Without the brilliant sun directly overhead, with the dividing line of night and day visible crossing the night sky, it suddenly becomes important to exist in the throbbing spirit that is eternal to the city. It is older somehow than the cosmopolitan buzz of other cities, despite this city being younger than our Boston, and I can only imagine the frenetic sense of need will grow as we near the solstice and at least one day without end...

Halfway points like these, between days and hours, are the perfect time to meet other travelers, which is how I ended up lying on the grass in a park with a group of European students, watching the darkness march towards the city and then exit in a soft dawn. My new friend and fellow daydreamer April invited me to the French students’ going away party, and so we sat on the Field of Mars practicing Russian, English, whatever language seemed best for the sentiment. This system only proved difficult when the boys would switch to French, which neither of us understood. Being French, the champagne and wine was flowing, and the party was good-natured enough we were even joined by real Russians. In the background, the first eternal flame in Russia, lit for the sacrifices of soldiers in WWI, flickered against a semi-circle of Russian men, one of whom put his foot, cigarette resting on knee, atop the low metal wall protecting the light. It was June 6, the poet Pushkin’s birthday, a very important day in Russia (and more importantly for the American abroad, the 70th anniversary of D-Day.) With my grandfather in mind, this sight gave me pause for a moment and I even felt a flash of anger--how dare he rest his foot on the monument of heroes, even if they aren’t my heroes--but then it occurred to me that no Russian soldier would begrudge a comrade a good smoke...I had a sudden vision of ghostly men in uniforms from ages past warming themselves by the fire and tossing cigarette butts in. It occurred to me then that our heroes, no matter what nation we are in, were ordinary people capable of extraordinary things through love--love of an ideal, or a need to protect those they loved (or even the primitive love of life a scared boy might have, holding a rifle on a front far from home...) I would like to imagine they enjoy watching these celebrations of life made possible by their sacrifice, that they do not begrudge the living their joy, and that at least some of them were peering down through the twilight.

The whole city was one grand party, with people outdoors enjoying the beauty of the cities parks. The lanterns released into the sky glowed gently, and the light lowered further. And so, prosaically enough, April and I began our quest for a bathroom, which led us towards the Neva river and the crowds. But we could not resist stopping to watch the bridges rise against the skyline, and the ships hurrying on up and down the river. We walked up Nevsky Prospekt, past street musicians and dancers and even a group of  young schoolchildren, up late to watch the bridges. And then, we were at the university, where I left the petite April, and I set out on the short walk to my apartment. The city is a safe place, generally speaking, and I wasn’t in a district with bars...Nevertheless, whenever a man offered me a cigarette (several times) or called out to the “cute girl in the long skirt”,” my strides lengthened and I leveled my best Russian stare at them, prompting a few comments--my favorite I think was, “Oh, soo, you clearly don’t smoke.”

The sky lightens as I reach the apartment, shaking a little from adrenaline. I had not intended to walk back through the shadows of a Friday night...But the light of dawn reminded me of the temporary nature of the acquaintances and adventures that accompany them. Life passes so quickly from its day, with its brilliance and shadows, into a night, which is not without beauty, and back into day again. The eternal patterns of light and dark are etchedinto our primitive memories. Perhaps that is why we revel when day and twilight reign during what should be night. The White Nights are a victory--over winter, over night, over sorrows that feed an eternal flame. Summer here, the fluid half-light, is the domain of new memories and love...Anger and sorrow and fear, the nights of our lives, are instead illuminated by a soft light.

It has rained all day today...purifying Petersburg of all its Friday night sins. And Anna left to visit her parents at the dacha this morning, driving out into the countryside, which was fine with me. I couldn’t stand the thought of walking out in that cold drizzle by myself, and I wanted nothing more than to be alone with my Russian books and my thoughts. So I began to translate my first bit of work for the Museum of Music--it’s web description. My heart wasn’t in it, so I worked on reading the copy of my favorite YA novel, the Lightning Thief, in Russian. But books couldn’t drown the confusing memory of the illumination I felt the night before, and the sorrowful news from home this morning. Even Black Books, the British TV show that Anna also happens to love, couldn’t cheer me up. So, after being alone with my Russian books, I wanted nothing more than to walk in the twilight again...

I promise I will talk about the funny things that happen--Russian bathroom signs, my class in school, finding my internship office, watching subtitled British Television with Anna. I couldn't tonight though. It was too spiritual an experience for me.

Love!

Adventures in the Apartment

Perhaps I should describe the curious little apartment I have been calling home. There isn’t what we would consider a proper bed anywhere; like Anna, I sleep on a divan, under a pretty red coverlet, which made me feel right at home. We both love red things, and even her plates are pretty porcelain, with beautiful poppies rampant across them. But I don’t know how engineers like Anna live here, since nothing is on the level; the doors, while a snug fit, all are on a slight slant... I know it would drive my dad crazy since it even bothers me, but when I offered to fill in one of the tiles that is missing, Anna looked at me and said, “But it work now.” Function over form, I suppose.

I have already mentioned there is only one sink, for the kitchen--you must wash your hands in the shower--but the other unique feature is a gas hot water heater, which threatens to go ‘blast’ if unattended, according to Anna. (However, I feel if it is going to go ‘blast’ , my attendance will be of little to no use, and I would rather it go ‘blast’ without me here ...) Despite the flame, which is particularly finicky to start and keep running, and the open grate, I honestly worry more about the stove, which lacks a working internal lighter, and must be started with matches. But it is quirky, and unusual, a bit like the coffee and milk scented air freshener in the toilet room (it isn’t a bathroom as we think of it). 

The locks are an adventure. In Russian, the word for lock and castle is both zamok; the two are differentiated only by stress on the last syllable. However, I think Anna’s apartment would need a moat like a castle to be any more secure than her simple lock system of quantity over quality! I actually had to have a lesson in locking the doors--yes, doors. There are two, with three locks between them, as well as a secured door opening into the courtyard. For a nation without a good word describing privacy, Russians seem to take their locks seriously. As sturdy as they are, the locks are even finickier than the heater. However, now I am so proficient in locking them, I can no longer get back in the apartment consistently...

Gorokhovaya street at Sunset!

My favorite feature is a window which overlooks the back courtyard; I love hearing the Russians below chattering at all hours as they pass through the gate into the wide world of St. Petersburg. I love people-watching, and I had thought at first it would be better to overlook the street--but here, through a strange trick of the courtyard, I can hear everyone as clearly as if I were standing beside them. From the struggles of little schoolchildren in the morning (Mama! Vasya took my toy again!!) to the drunken confusion of two men at two A.M. (You lost the key?!?), nothing in the courtyard happens without me hearing it. It’s not good for my jet lag, and I am used to the country quiet, but I love hearing Russian all around. I am quiet, so I think I have gone unnoticed by the denizens; I have actually never seen anyone coming or going so far. These people could just be like the shadows in Plato’s cave, except with voices, and I wouldn’t even know.

By now, I find it even sadder that this is the same, infamous courtyard in which I managed to get lost. (I still feel some shame over that, especially since the kitchen window overlooks the courtyard from which I enter the apartment.)

It’s remarkable to me what this courtyard has seen--since this building is right by the Fontanka canal and very old, I imagine the yellow walls, cracked through with stone, have overheard approximately 200 years of very real dramas, with the same lack of passion as our Rocky Mountains. I can’t imagine they care about my small troubles, being stone. But I do not think the life of courtyard is completely ruled by these monoliths, for when it rains, the water trickles down the cigarette-stained cracks like tears on cheeks. This is a city for memories, not for the present and people. But I like to think the walls weep for the thousands of sorrows this city holds, and the bits of humanity they overhear but cannot understand. It’s worth remembering sometimes that Petersburg was dragged from the swamps surrounding the Neva by the will of a mortal emperor, and it is said that someday the Neva will reclaim what is hers. She has tried in the past; floods in the poet Pushkin’s day carried off thousands of lives, epidemics of disease from her waters more. Add to their total the million or so who died in the siege of Leningrad, and the 50,000 who sacrificed themselves to build her, and St. Petersburg remains a city of ghosts inhabited by the living. Anyone living here walks in the shadows of imperial doom and communism; conversely, many here seem to appreciate love and beauty more strongly. Perhaps they cannot touch the feet of the astral giants, from Peter the Great and the tsars to the communists, but the overwhelming will of the city is to continue on, without superficiality, but also not without love. To see only beauty in the buildings is to ignore that their shadows fall upon unmarked graves; to see beauty only in the people is to ignore the sense of majesty and dignity of a grand lady like the city. The White Nights and spring and summer are a bit of romantic hope for the city. For me, they are encapsulated by a single lock I saw on a bridge. That single lock is reassuring--on a small scale, it is hope. On a larger scale, it is symbolic of a love and a people who can endure beyond tragedies of stone.

Sorry for indulging my poeticism. For those of you wondering if all I do is sit by the river, mope, and read the 4 books of Pushkin my host has lent me, I have actually been to the museum at which I will intern. In an exciting development, I am in the most advanced class, and my rather one-sided talk with the director was entirely in Russian! Admittedly, it was about music and theater...so lots of French terms that I knew...and besides, interns are to be talked at, not with right?

But it's a very nice river...

It is all very exciting, but it is very late as I write this, so more to come on... the nature of strolling--I am becoming a professional at this very Russian art--my mastery of the Petersburg face when walking--I believe I have this down too well, as 4 people have asked me for directions, however they were all boys--and whatever other adventures come to pass!
Love!

The beginning

At first, I considered opening with an apology for the horrible pun in the title, but I have realized I am completely unrepentant--it is one of the more appropriate puns in recorded history, dating back to the division of Rome by a pair of caesars...or scissors, if you know the hackneyed joke. But puns, even bad ones, are intrinsically tied to humor and the language, and therefore cause trouble any student abroad, since no one can resist wordplay from time to time. After all, they are so heavily dependent on language that they are virtually untranslatable...and there is nothing worse than an untranslatable phrase when you are jet-lagged and far from home. Banal as a pun may seem, reflecting on them seems appropriate as I attempt in the course of a summer to learn to translate not just a language, but the reflections and features of a different culture in such a way others can find some understanding of this enigmatic place. It is my hope that my experiences in Russia allow me to appreciate  and possibly understand some of its enigmatic nature, just like clarifying a new pun. In fact, clarification is one of my favorite words; I love having things made clear to me...and of course, the latin base is part of my name. I was seeking clarification when I decided to come here for a summer; not only about the Russian language and culture, but about my future and purpose in learning the language. It is my hope that in this time of political turmoil, I can shed some light on the goodness of a culture and people for my friends back home.

Russian lilacs look a lot like American ones....

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As I sat and stared at the blanket of clouds that had stretched from Ireland all over Europe on my descent into Petersburg, I realized I should have written my reflection much earlier...probably before I left home, before I was jet-lagged, and before I had forgotten my very justifiable reasons for coming to Russia. As the lovely and curious English couple on holiday in St. Petersburg (for their 40th wedding anniversary!) asked me while waiting to board in Frankfurt, why was I going?

“Because it’s Russia, that’s reason enough.” I said, not thinking of my internship or my interests in music. My tired answer was probably excusable, since I had already made them laugh with my tale of woe; I had gotten lost, circled the entire Z concourse and managed to go through airport security twice. (This is a feat only possible in the Frankfurt airport, the modern labyrinth...) Again, they laughed politely. We chattered briefly about the rain (a consistent hit with the English) and their wedding from long ago. She and her husband had saved up for this special trip to celebrate; he was a teacher of literature in Manchester and she a nurse. During a loll in conversation, the very professorial husband pushed up his glasses with his finger, winked, and asked, “have you been practising your vodka drinking for this trip?” 

“Of course...but you know the American drinking age...so you didn’t hear it from me!”

He laughed so hard his newly replaced glasses nearly fell off and said, “You’re quite the thoroughbred, lass!”

It was not the reaction I was expecting. Although I suppose that is in line with the rest of my journey...because one shouldn’t rely on one’s expectations with Russia. It’s a bit like Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition that way...one never expects it, whatever it may be. I was just surprised it began so early in my journey. It began with the strange woman in the Denver bookstore who suggested I needed to read 50 Shades of Gray because I looked as though I needed a good time... The sweetest was a lovely Catholic lady from Colorado, traveling with her husband, who was a small town mayor. She played me in checkers, slept on my shoulder, and then signed a cross over me before we parted ways in Frankfurt. Then there was Filip, my navigator of Frankfurt, a kindred spirit discovered on my second circle into the unsecured train area when I overheard him mutter, “I hate this airport.”

“So do I,”  I said malevolently. Our eyes met, and thus began my friendship with Filip the Serbian-American sound engineer (who worked the Grammies twice) from Los Angeles. It saddens me that the Filip who offered to record my voice anytime at his studio, who happily bought me a drink because, "you are was one of the few American girls I can stand," is the same Filip as the one who glowered at me across his glass, and who spat out the name of his ex-girlfriend and who admitted to throwing away his favorite watch because it reminded him of her. I hope he finds his solace in Serbia away from her memories...

My favorite interesting person, however, is Jean-Marie, who interrupted my reverie at the window and, looking at the Kommersant on my lap, asked, “may I compiliment you? But first, I must know...are you Russian girl speaking ze English, or American girl reading ze Russian, or neither...” 

I informed him I was American, and that I enjoyed ‘compiliments...compliments’, and found myself drawn into deep conversation about ‘ze joys of life’ with this lovely old frenchman who sings baritone in a choir that was taking a cruise from Petersburg to Moscow. He was delighted to be sitting by a young soprano and fellow musician, and insisted it was the luckiest day of his travels so far; not only did he get to sit by a beautiful Estonian economist on the flight from Paris, he then got to sit by me. I thanked him for this compliment, and he said he had a story to tell.

A habitual gambler on the seaside, he then said, “Traveling is like lottery. I told my wife when I saw you in line, ‘After my Estonian friend, I shall hope I sit by another nice girl like her.’ And I did....Zis is better than the time I got upgraded to Toronto and sat by...how you say... mannequin.”

I attempted to stifle the mental image of a younger, suave Jean-Marie with his arm around a headless plastic body, giggled, and said, “I think you mean model.”

I was afraid I had embarrassed him, and so asked after his story again, a decision I do not regret. Jean-Marie did not disappoint, and began the tale of his secretary, and his confusion over why smart women did not want to be called pretty. According to him, "In France men can compliment beautiful girls like you and is not problem. In America and Canada, you get problem. I don’t know about now. At least you get problem in 70’s. Like my seceretary from Toronto, who I compiliment, and she trow coffee on my lap. But I have wife so I did not ever offer sex with her even though she was beautiful. But I did gave her raise even after coffee..." 

“But Jean-Marie, when men compiliment...compliment a women in America, it usually means they want her. Hearing they are smart is respectful...” I say, good feminist that I try to be.

“But its like admiring a painting. I compiliment art and do not take? I do not understand why ze American men appreciate beauty by taking it.”

“And Frenchman don’t?” I countered, thinking also that women are not paintings, “...but thank you nonetheless.”

Jean-Marie nodded slowly, before suddenly changing course and saying, “You are welcome. I am a mathematician now, after retiring from engineer. I like to teach children math. And music is the order of math with the soul of art. This is why I like it.”

This retiree frenchman introduced me to his wife, before parting ways with a cheek kiss.  

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Anna's "apple pie"

I am now in St. Petersburg at my host Anna's. She is tall and sturdily built, dark haired with a narrow face and soulful dark eyes--the sort of face Tolstoy dreamed up for his kind, spiritual Marya. Her thick glasses emphasize the appraising glance only engineers like her can give. She is a bit chubby--and she cooked me a massive first dinner. I fear for my waistline. But I’ll be walking plenty, and Anna is an absolute gem, a real sweetheart, though her apple pie she baked was more of a cake with inserted apple slices, and nothing like the American version. Her apartment is...unusual. The bathroom and shower are separate, which isn’t too strange for Russia, but there is no sink in the bathroom, which is unusual anywhere. The only sink is in the kitchen. Her genuine pleasure at helping me with Russian and in practicing her English is remarkable! When she learned where I was from, she switched to English and asked, "Montana..is by Wyoming??? I love Buffalo Bill! Wyoming has Buffalo Bill Museum in Cody!!" 

This proves that even in Russia I cannot escape the reach of small town Wyoming; this is the museum that my boyfriend Jess’s mother works at...

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Having survived jet lag handily (it works wonders flying into Europe in the evening), I awoke in the morning and had breakfast pressed upon me by a worried Anna, despite my protestations. I needed to walk to the University of Economics, in order to complete my bureaucratic registration of my migration card and passport. This, of course, involved finding the university...But Anna was happy to walk me there--it is only 15 minutes from my apartment. Just over the Fontanka canal bridge, down towards the Admiralty spiral, and then right along Gribodoeva canal takes you to the school--which is across from a bridge guarded by a pair of regal lions. It is interesting, a bit old, and right by the extremely fancy cathedral of the Spilt Blood. I am afraid I walked the whole way like I was on air, which is a far cry from blending in with the grounded city people. But the sun had been up for hours, and even through the clouds Petersburg glowed with an irresistible excess of light.

A view into the courtyard from Anna's window

At the university I made the acquaintance of my coordinator and some of the other students. I think they were all a tiny bit jet lagged, but nevertheless we ventured to Nevsky Prospekt to activate our cell-phones and get familiar with the area and each other. I so look forward to two months in such interesting company! Three of them are from Texas A&M--proving I can never escape small town Texas. I found it interesting that they even manage to drawl their Russian slightly.

My coordinator, April, and I had lunch to discuss my internship--I will be working at the Museum of Theatre and Music starting this Monday! Which means it is time for a hasty and thorough review of Russian...

Fortunately, I have actually been able to order and communicate with Russians fairly well so far, and I think having to use the cases and grammar makes it easier to get to communicate. Surprisingly, even my lunch was what I wanted--a remarkable feat in a stolovaya (cafeteria), since I usually can’t even identify American foods, let alone Russian equivalents. My first mishap today occurred not in speaking, but in attempting to come back to the apartment by myself. It was just a simple inability on my part to differentiate between the blocks of identical, old yellow and peach buildings that line Gorokhovaya street. The courtyards also all look the same and it would be far too easy if russians posted the building names...So, it was no surprise to me, looking back, when I ended up in an entirely different set of apartments, which were identical to where I am staying...except at the time I assumed the key didn't work simply due to mechanical obstinacy. I ended up being puzzled for a little while, and keeping with my assumption, decided to walk a couple blocks before trying the door so as not to look like a suspicious idiot. I finally realized on my third attempt that I was at the wrong apartment 23... I took a left, and went to the opposite 23, and happily reached home.

Kazan cathedral!

I am quite happy in Petersburg, and don't even need a map to navigate the central area, even though I could use one for the courtyard! (For those concerned, yes, I do carry one with me!) It's a bit like coming home...which I should find disturbing, having only been here once before..but since I seem to have internalized St. Petersburg geography from all the novels I have read, or my dream-walks around the city, I'll make good use of it. 

St. Issac's Cathedral! 

Tonight, Anna and I went on a short 6 kilometer stroll, just appreciating the late sun and the beautiful dignity of Peter’s city.  We conversed in ease in Russian...which is a real joy for me!

With Love from Russia,

Claire

P.S. I felt this Irish pub seemed like a taste of adventures to come...

... O'Hooligan is about as Irish as leprechauns...