28 °C Imatra, Finland lies a mere 7km from the Russian frontier... torturously close.
I had to go.
It really would have been wrong if I hadn't.
A month later, I boarded the Tolstoy overnight express to Moscow. I devoured my stash of karjalanpiirakka and sipped on sweet black tea served in an elegant filigree silver coated glass. My cabinmate was Anja, a 20-something Muscovite on her way home from a glorious summer spent in idyllic Karelia.
She was dreading her return to studies in Moscow – "too competitive, boring and expensive", she mused (she was studying Economics, you see). In addition to teaching me to read the Cyrillic alphabet, she told me a little of how life was for her in Moscow –exhausting, expensive, exasperating, and very occasionally exhilarating. My life exactly, I thought.
Riding the Tolstoy Express to Moscow
We chatted away as the train rolled across the border into Russia. The pale green forests of the drought-stricken Finnish countryside faded away as the blackened forests from the summer bushfires set in. The provodnitsa (carriage conductor), a remarkably affable lady with bouffant hair and a painted face popped in to make sure we were comfortable, and even the immigration police were surprisingly welcoming, not even bothering to search my backpack for weapons of mass destruction. I was mildly disappointed to have evaded the bureaucratic minefield I had so been anticipating.
The train rolled into Leningradsky vozkal at 8.30am and I used my newly acquired knowledge of Cyrillic to navigate my way on the metro to my hostel on Ul Arbat, a lively Moscow street with its art market, buskers and enough matryoshkas to last you all the way to Vladivostok! Resisting the compulsion to head straight to Red Square, I ambled down Ul Arbat to the Pushkin Fine Arts Museum. Now according to Lonely Planet's (ever fallible but still beloved) guide to Russia and Belarus, the Pushkin is home to a wonderful collection of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings. But of course, since publication 5 months earlier, these works have shifted to a gallery down the street! But the Art Noveau posters by Toulouse-Lautrec and Mucha more than sufficed.
Ul Arbat
As I exited the Pushkin onto ul Volkhonka, I was blinded by the dazzling dome of the gargantuan Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, which was built to commemorate Russia's victory over Napoleon 1812 (hence the 1812 Overture). During Stalin's reign, it was proposed that the church be destroyed to make way for a 300m high Palace of Soviets and a 100m Lenin statue. Instead, they built the world's largest swimming pool!
Cathedral of Christ the Saviour
After a rather tasty serve of bliny (essentially a crepe, with a ludicrous slop of sour cream, veges and cheese), I hopped back on the elegant metro. Now, having lived for 8 months in London, I had come to loathe the Tube as much as I loved it. But then the Moscow metro is truly marvellous – it carries 4 times the daily volume of the London Underground with few delays and seemingly little overcrowding. Not only does it get you from A to Щ (the Cyrillic equivalent of "shch"), many of the stations are exquisitely beautiful – from the gold-trimmed white porcelain of Prospekt Mira, to the incredible mosaics of Kievskaya or the floral bas-reliefs decorated with AK-47s at Partizanskaya. And the escalators…well you feel as though you are descending into some subterranean underworld with stoney-faced babushkas acting as guardians of the gates.
Riding the Moscow Metro
Resurfacing from the underworld into the gleaming August sunlight, I ventured out to the Novodevichy Convent. The convent was founded in the 16th century, and was previously the residence of Peter the Great's sister, Sophie, but nowadays is used as a convent. The convent has a cluster of lovely churches set amidst charming gardens, which as I quickly discovered, has made it immensely popular with the nouveau riche of Moscow for wedding photos. So after being growled at by half-a-dozen-bottom-sniffing-salivating-snarling-German-Shepherds (quite traumatic for a caninophobe!), en route from the Metro, I was amused to find the wedding brigade. The brides – gaunt-apricot-skinned 19 year olds in baby-spew-hued-taffeta-gowns smiled radiantly. The grooms –well-chuffed-clean-shaven-Elvis-esque-suit wearing casanovas. The wedding cars – well, hilarious really. Imagine your standard white limo – stylish, not too showy ya know. Then imagine the car has had a few modifications.
Novodevichy Convent
Let's say it's been "pimped" up.
Like a hot rod!
Oh dear….
Getting hitched - a la Muscovite
Unable to bear any more ridiculously over-the-top wedding parties I headed around the corner to the adjacent cemetery where I paid my respects to Chekhov, former Soviet President Nikita Khrushchev, Mrs Gorbachev, and several great Russian composers including Prokofiev, Shostakovich and Kabalevsky, whose studies I used to play until my fingers hurt. As I was leaving the cemetery, it began lashing with rain and I wandered, rather soaked, back to Ul Arbat where I met Lauren, an American heading across Siberia, via the "Stans"; and Jina, a Pommie who planned to cycle around the remote but purportedly enchanting Solovetsky Islands.
One of the creepiest but perversely fascinating things to see in Moscow, is surely Lenin's mausoleum. After his death in 1924, mourners filed solemnly past Lenin's decaying body for weeks. The Kremlin set out to find a technique for modern day preservation, and 6 months after his death, came up with a chemical solution (no pun intended). So today, 82 years after his death, you can still pay your respects to the rather waxy-looking Lenin. Lauren and I entered the icy, dimly-lit, heavily-guarded chamber – to come face to face with Vladimir Lenin the following morning. It was a little surreal, and a lot creepy – I know they submerge him in paraffin wax every year as part of the necrotic preservation, but he really did just look plain weird.
From Red Square we headed out to the burbs to visit the Izmaylovo Market, with its large collection of Soviet paraphernalia, matryoshky, rugs, lacquerware etc. After trying on a ridiculous number of oversized Cherkessian hats and opening up as many matryoshka sets as we were allowed to, Lauren stopped to buy some elegantly hand-painted napkin rings (for her "glory box" or something equally dire). She paid for her purchase, and we headed off in search of some bliny for lunch.
But bliny wasn't to be had as we were stopped abruptly by the peevish looking man who had sold her the napkin-rings. He violently grabbed Lauren by the arm. Spitting out a staccato of words in obviously incomprehensible Russian, he proceeded to aggressively haul Lauren back to his market stall, all the time muttering away to himself. Quite bewildered by the situation, Lauren pushed him away and attempted to run. But it was futile for he grabbed her with even more vigour than before. He punched her, she kicked him etc. Oh dear…
A young female vendor came running over and acted as an interpreter. It turned out that the grumpy old sod had given Lauren too much change (about $1.50 or so), and was determined to get his change back. I encouraged Lauren to just give him the money so we could be happily on our way. But Lauren was pissed off – rightly so, as the man was being a complete bastard – and decided, on principle, not to give him the money. Hmmm….bad idea, the man's anger intensified and he started to hit Lauren, while various vendors from nearby stalls and I tried to break it up. Oh dear dear dear….
Eventually Lauren coughed up the money and we walked away, but not after he kicked her one more time and she slapped him back. Lauren was obviously upset by the experience, and more than a little angry. A rotund old lady came running out from her stall, sobbing uncontrollably. She hugged Lauren, and then me, all the time sobbing her eyes out. She then ushered us into her
stall, sat us down, prepared us some tea and called over an interpreter.
Lauren was keen to seek out the police to report the man for assault, though I really thought it would be one of those pointless ventures into foreign bureaucracy. I had read that Russia has one of the highest rates of domestic violence in the world, so thought that the police were likely to be unresponsive to the woebegone pleas of a foreigner, American at that. But perhaps her persistence paid off, as the administrator of the market was sought, the nasty man reprimanded, and apparently told to sod off permanently. Now whether or not this was true, it certainly made Lauren feel a lot better.
Izmaylovo Market
After the joys of Izmaylovo, Lauren set off to brave the bureaucrats at the Embassy of Kazakhstan - a brave move, I thought, considering the reputation of the consular staff. I meanwhile, headed back to Red Square to visit the onion-domed-giddying- cornucopia of colours that is St Basil's Cathedral, and the nearby red-bricked State History Museum, which, with only Cyrillic writing on the exhibits made for a rather challenging museum visit.
Finally, I had the time to wander about splendid Red Square. Flanked by the Kremlin, St Basil's, State History Museum and Gum Department Store, it's a glorious place to wander – surely one of the most beautiful city squares in the world.
I headed back to Red Square the following morning to visit the Kremlin, the heart of Russian politics for more than 800 years. Whilst in queue, I met a Canadian Rugby player (do they even have a team?), and together we wandered around the Kremlin grounds, taking in the Patriarch's Palace, Assumption Cathedral, Tsar Bell and Cannon, Annunciation Cathedral, Archangel Cathedral and Alexandrovsky Garden. Neither of us had been fortunate enough to nab tickets to visit the Armoury, as it seemed to have been booked out my name-tag-wearing-tour-groups, who smirked at us as we were refused entry. I had by chance, seen an exhibition of Faberge eggs and jewellery in Tampere, Finland two weeks before, so wasn't too bothered.
Both of us found the Kremlin underwhelming and headed out in search of a bit of craic. So to the All Russian Exhibition Centre we went. In spite of its decidedly dour name, the VDNKh (as it is known in Russian), is a fascinating park with wide pavements filled with grandiose pavilions, exquisite fountains, rocket ships, the world's third largest ferris wheel and young scantily clad Muscovites practising death-defying roller-blade manoeuvres.
Entrance to the All Russian Exhibition Centre (VDNKh)
From the top of the ferris wheel we had an amazing view over the bustling metropolis of 10million people, as well as an appreciation of the enormity of the Ostankino tower, which at 540m is the 2nd tallest free standing tower in the world.
As we quickly discovered, the VDNKh is also a great place to check out the latest in Muscovite fashion (or perhaps anti-fashion) - aspiring minxes in their red PVC crop tops and matching tights, crotch-hugging denim cut-offs with crocheted-string-bikinis, hideous lycra white mini-dresses with chunky white platforms…(no salivating here lads!). As for the men – well not a lot to say really - a little too much stonewash, far too many muscle shirts and
loads of grey shoes – seriously….just don't do it!
After a wander in the glorious summer sunshine, we ambled along the Moscow river, towards the Sculpture Park with its statues of Stalin, Lenin, Brezhnev, and bizarrely of a few Buddhas!
We headed to the wonderful Tretyakov gallery the next morning to view the resplendent collection of Russian icons. For a non-Catholic who is mostly interested in late 19th/early 20th century paintings, I am surprisingly fond of iconographic works and have probably visited all the museums of iconography from the Moscow down to Dubrovnik! There's something inexplicably beguiling about their elongated glimmering faces….ok maybe I'm just a bit weird!
Chris didn't seem to share my enthusiasm but was more enthusiastic about the prospect of visiting Gorky Park, with its mesmerizing carousel music, rainbow-coloured ankle biters, rocket ships and crazy mirrors that make you look as skinny, miniscule, or Michelin-man like as you so desire. Certainly not the snowy, sinister place I remembered from the 1983 film…
From here I headed to the contemporary history museum with its collection of old Bolshevik paraphernalia, the Bolshoi (closed for refurbishment) and finally for one last wander about mesmeric Red Square before boarding my overnight train to St Petersburg.
My arrival at Moskovsky Vozkal early the next morning reminded me how fond I truly am of grungy European railway stations – melting pots of vagrants, vagabonds and bag-snatching vultures. The fact that at 8am there was copious inebriation aflutter was a little disturbing….is there really any need to be drinking beer, let alone vodka this early in the morning? ?
After checking into my cosy hostel, I strolled along the banks of the Neva river, and then through the elegant Summer Gardens en route to Mikhailovsky Palace (home to the Russian Museum) with its collection of Russian icons, sculptures and paintings and a sublime exhibition of Filinov works. Then I meandered about the canals admire the exterior of the lovely but hideously named Church of The Saviour on Spilled Blood, before wandering down Nevsky Prospekt towards Dvortsovaya Ploschad, the beautiful cobbled square outside the Hermitage. The square is a great place for people-watching – young lads hooning about in their 1975 model ladas, roller-blading-mini-skirted-40-something women, surly men strutting along with their muscle shirts and murses (man bags), lip-puffing lolitas in the new anti-fashionware and digital-camera-toting-tourists clutching their Louis Vuitton handbags and stumbling about in their Jimmy Choos.
Back at the hostel that night I bumped into a familiar face, Jina, who I had met in Moscow. She'd just returned from the Solovetsky Islands in North West Russia, though a week or so earlier than planned. She relayed to me how she'd met a Russian lad on the boat across to the islands and had gone cycling with him up to the Transfiguration Monastery. So distracted was she by the remarkable scenery, that she went flying over the handlebars and fell unconscious, only to wake up to learn she had lost half a tooth, seriously grazed her face and couldn't move her neck. Her friend and the benevolent owners of the local guesthouse took her in and dulled the pain with some swigs of Vodka before she headed back to St Petersburg in search of proper medical attention. She headed off the next morning to the American Medical Clinic to learn she had actually fractured her neck and might lose the rest of her shattered tooth…bloody bicycles!
The next morning I hit the Hermitage, the mint-green gilded former palace of Catherine the Great. The Hermitage is now home to more than 3 million artworks ranging from bronze-age petroglyphs to works from Picasso's Blue Period. I found the dizzying array of works a little overwhelming so tried to dip in and out rooms that were of interest and admire the sumptuous interior including the forest coloured Malachite Hall, alluring chandelier crowned ballroom and elegant Jordan Staircase. Not quite arted out, I headed from there to check out the inside of the Church of The Saviour on Spilled Blood, with its elegantly painted frescoes, dazzling mosaics (all 7000 of them) and marble furnishings.
I awoke the next morning to gleaming sunshine so took a bus out to Petrodvorets (Peter's Palace) to check out the amazing gardens and cascading fountains of the "Russian Versailles". The gravity powered fountains (140 of them) are pretty spectacular and adorned with gilded sculptures of Greek gods and goddesses. I wandered about the exquisite Lower Gardens of the estate, past the Grand Palace and Montplaisir (Peter the Great's favourite seaside villa), before boarding a random bus, which I desperately hoped would get me back into town - thankfully it did and my entire Russian vocabulary of "Privet spasiba blin smetana bliny" ("hello thank you damn sour cream pancake") wasn't put to the test!
Back in St Petersburg I headed to the golden-capped St Isaac's Cathedral. When I arrived at Isaakievsky Ploschad, I stopped to join the crowd who had gathered and were staring up at the smoke in the sky. Until I scaled the colonnade of the Church, I had thought that an old apartment building was alight, though it soon became apparent that the dome of a large cathedral had gone up in flames – that of the Trinity Cathedral. Whilst up the colonnade it began to pour so after scrambling down, I lingered in the delicate interior of St Isaac's whilst I waited for the rain to pass by. Decorated discreetly in buff pink granite, lapis azuli and forest-green
malachite, it was a less giddying interior than that of the Spilled Blood Cathedral.
On my last morning in St Petersburg I perused the Museum of Ethnography to learn a little about the 150 different ethnic groups that combine to form Russia, before wandering past the Town Duma (old parliament) and delightful Passazh arcade and finally to the Alexander Nevsky Monastery and Cemetery to pay homage to Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Dostoyevsky.
I almost missed my train back to Helsinki as I nearly went to the wrong station….but thankfully the unpleasant cab driver who stinged me for 300roubles got me there just on time…the bastard!
Ah....the joys of travel.
Bel xxx
-14 °C