Virginia Parker

Final Day in Prague

April 12, 2016 by Virginia Parker 2 Comments

Saturday, my last day in Prague, I flew to the Schwartzenberg Palace museum like a homing pigeon. I saw a number of excellent paintings, but when the guard pointed to the stairs to the top floor and insisted I go up those steps, I was reluctant. Arms and armor? Not really my thing. Despite my shotgun series, I’m more amour than arms – make love not war, right? Like this new bride, posing on the edge of the parapet.

Romance — Fall in love! But please, not literally.

But sure enough, I saw some things that imprinted on my retinas like a flashbang. It’s how artists in every media insist on creating beauty no matter what, no matter when, no matter where. That’s what gives me hope for our species.

Just throwing down that gauntlet could do some damage.

Consider what kind of force was behind the blow that made this dent In the shoulder, from behind.

helmet2 — This is what Payton Manning really should be wearing on the field.

Okay, it’s not all sliced ham and great art.

Prague, the dark side:

Smokers exhale outside of every building entrance and exit.

All those picturesque cobblestones are bilateral ankle fractures waiting to happen. They also function as outdoor ashtrays, and the gaps around each stone is packed with smoker debris, filters and butts. Ew.

City of 100 spires, yep, and ten thousand tourists for every freaking spire. We infest the place like lice. It’s it just as true in March as June, apparently.

Where there are tourists there’s a whole of lo identical, cheap crap for sale. It may be touted as made in Prague but bro, it’s made in China.

April weather is a fickle, unpredictable bitch, lurching from sleeting to sweating in a day.

Prague, the bright side:

The Golden Well was exactly suited to my taste and temperament. Small, historical, located out of the crush of nightlife and at the foot of the castle complex. Authentic, tasteful, comfortable, and one of a kind. And the staff? Top quality.

The architecture lives up to its rep. Every street and alley in the historic center is replete with wonderful buildings. A time traveler’s parade that marches on from the Medieval Our Lady Before Týn church to post modern 1996 Dancing House, Fred and Ginger. Bonus; everywhere is close, and pleasantly walkable.

Not one bad meal. Delectable takeaway available on every street. From pink Prague ham to luscious patisserie to tasty banh mi to the Michelin star inventive excellence of Field

The most beautiful library in the world in the Strahovské monastery. My idea of heaven.

Number one best thing about Prague – my daughter joined me. She’s curious and intrepid. We notice the perfect eyelashes on an otherwise too sweet painting of the Virgin and naughty loaves of bread and oysters. We like picking up fun facts via audio tours. We appreciate inventive food. And we both like exploring, at our own pace, our respective agendas, sharing information and experiences afterwards.

Sbohem Prague, Привет! St Petersburg, Day 1

April 14, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

(Goodbye Prague, hello St Petersburg)

Woke up at 4:30, got up, and got going. Here’s a farewell to Prague photo.

Life imitates art, art imitates everything

Made a mug of tea – nothing quite like having that option anytime night or day. I am glad I made a point of it for all my hotels. Also, first time I brought my own mug and I am glad I did. An Innkeeper’s idea of a cup suitable for tea is insufficient for my needs. At 5:30 the night clerk brought a single cup of coffee and a tiny flask of steamed milk, and carried my bags down absolutely silently. Out to the pre-arranged car, off to the airport in zero traffic. I was dropped off not precisely curbside, but close enough to see the doors. Don’t know if this is a taxi thing or a security deal. I imagine cveryone is testy after Brussels.

The gate wasn’t open yet so I read for awhile, pinching myself periodically. I still can’t quite believe I am going to Russia. When security does open for business I set off alarms, but they swipe my hands with a square of material, analyze the result, and wave me through. I am the second person on board and the only person in business class. There were rattling sounds when the plane takes off, and a shuddering sensation. Like the parts were just a little bit loose. I read my two hour flight away.

We landed in St. Petersburg and I saw two other planes as we taxied in. There was a birch tree grove next to the runway. It reminded me of Duluth. I was expecting something bigger and much busier. Walked to customs through bare and industrial corridors. No photography allowed signs appeared at intervals (a SLR camera in a red circle with a slash across it, which seemed quaint. They haven’t gotten around to making iPhone cameras forbidden icons, I guess).

My customs guy looked about 23, with a bad hair cut and a uniform that was too big in the shoulders for him. He did a lot of frowning at my passport, running it over scanners, typing in information, and comparing it to my face multiple times. Like something might have changed from the first time. He seemed weary and much too young to be locked in this box. I soberly waited for his signal, thanked him, and practically skipped to baggage claim.

My driver, a rangy, mustachioed, white haired gent with a long stride, was holding a sign with my name. I literally had to run to keep up with him. Plenty cordial though, with a bit of English. A native St Peterburgian. He drove like NASCAR though a landscape that looked like the seamier neighborhoods of Chicago or down market Detroit. Rusting, crumbling, gray, grim, monolithic blocks of industrial architecture. Oh no, I thought, this doesn’t look anything like the pictures. Cars had a ubiquitous layer of streaky gray, a filthy, end of winter crust of grime and salt. I started looking for a Pets Or Meat sign in cyrillic. I told myself we just didn’t happen to drive through the attractive part, but it’s got to be here somewhere, right? The fact my hotel was apparently in this district gave me pause, but once we reached a canal the streets began to change, the concrete blocks of building fell away, and large houses appeared with architectural interest and charm.

I recognized my hotel entry from the time I spent gazing hopefully at the online photos and videos. My driver heaved my luggage onto the curb and sped away. I rang the two bells, hoping one worked. The door opened and I stepped into my refuge for the next three weeks.

The young people who run the front of the house are polite and cheerful and patient and friendly and helpful. Their English is excellent. There was a bit of a traffic jam at the desk; guests both coming and going. I was seated by glass wall looking into the courtyard garden. They took my passport briefly, then my money – the entire stay is paid for upon arrival. Their numbers exactly matched the ones in my notebook – having print outs of my email paper trail has come in handy, so I confidently coughed up my credit card.

Escorted up to my room via stairs that are broad and deep and old wood and marble. I’m on the top floor at the end of a corridor that’s all windows down one side. None of the doors have numbers or other identifying marks. My room is cream and white, with pickled beams overhead and light, knotty wood floor. It feels even more spacious that it looks online. Usually it’s the other way around. Must be 12 foot ceilings. Two enormous windows overlook the courtyard and have white sheers and roman blinds.

Took a stroll around my new ‘hood, saw this in a window and it exactly matched my mood.

I absolutely insist on enjoying my life.

My room is awash in light. One window is set at a slant in the roof, over one side of my bed. Lying there, I can see the blue dome painted with gold stars of Troitsky Church. Right now it’s dark-thirty and silent, profoundly quiet. It bodes well.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":-0.003353585256263614,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Another room with a view

Monday April 11, Yusupov Palace on the Moika

April 15, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

At breakfast I edited my blog entries and set up a useful travel hack. I emailed myself exact addresses I’ll need for that day, so I can quickly copy and paste into Uber. I made sure to download that email before leaving the hotel’s Wi-Fi. The Hermitage was closed on Mondays, so I eased into the might and splendor of Imperial Russia.

I walked to St. Nicholas church, that baroque orthodox beacon of beauty with the golden domes and crosses.

As I entered, a mass was being sung a capella. I bought and lit seven slender tapers and took those moments to calm and focus my thoughts on something greater than myself. When I’m traveling, I’ll open any church door in hopes of finding art, and while I’m there, say my prayers. I lit candles for family, friends and myself. I need divine intervention to keep from being obnoxiously self-righteous when other tourists ignore the No Photographs or Video signs.

There were half a dozen ladies cleaning and dusting, policing candles, keeping a sharp eye on tourists. Women so small I could have mistaken them for children. They barely had to duck to walk under the swagged chains set up as barriers to separate the congregants from visitors. One lady in a kerchief and apron vigorously polished silver in the hall by the stairwell. Ceaseless communal effort, like devotionally inclined bees. The air smelled like honey and wax and layer upon layer of incense. Intensely sweet and spicy and musky.

The congregation stood on the other side of the chain, closer to the chanting and altar, but in no visible pattern or order. I couldn’t see any pews or chairs. During the service the priest prostrated himself many times, full length and face down on the floor. A tall, fashionable woman in jeans and boots did the same. A young woman with a toddler passed by me, ducked under the barrier chain and walked over to an icon of the virgin. She picked up her little boy and held him as he carefully lit and placed a candle in a round brass candle stand. You could see he was accustomed to having an active place in this spiritual community, one in which he was lifted, raised up, and he added to the light.

I left feeling better than when I arrived.

From there, it was an easy stroll to the Yusupov Palace. There was one line for the entry ticket, another for the coat check, a third for the audio guide, but then I was free to wander to my heart’s content. Though lady guardians firmly insisted I visit rooms in order on my first pass, they had no problem with backtracking. I noticed this in Prague too, the insistence on seeing every comer, in order. At the Yusupov I was between a large Russian tour group and Indian gay couple and an American tour group, trooping from one gorgeous, sumptuous, ornate room to the next.**

I loved the library with its secret safe that protected letters of Puskin not rubles.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":0.008337936364114285,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Pass me my Kindle and I’ll read right here.

The ballroom was empty except for a massive chandelier, but you could imagine the musicians tuning up, the swirl of skirts and dash of uniforms, the heat and chatter, the flicker and drip of dozens of candles burning over it all. Former residents were known for wealth and beauty.

I was particularly taken with the luster of pear wood furniture.

Blue bedroom to dream in.

Red room to entertain a small company of close friends.

I didn’t forget to look up.

{"focusMode":1,"deviceTilt":-0.2562002698567252,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Above the art collection

above the basement bonus room. The one tricked out like a seraglio — Above the basement bonus room. The one tricked out like a seraglio.

While I was looking up, I heard this coming from the theater (yes, they have a theater. it’s a palace, yo.)

Lunch was at the nearby restaurant The Idiot, which takes its name from the eponymous Dostoyevsky story. Visually, it’s a worn leather book of place, stitched together from little odd shaped rooms filled with discarded Victorian furniture, dark pattered floral wallpaper, and a clutter of books, paintings and framed photographs. I ordered pumpkin soup and the server plonked down bread, cutlery, and complimentary shot of vodka. Um, nyet, I said, but complimentary tea would be welcome. I didn’t get any tea and the food wasn’t great either.

On the walk back, I noted that many bridges had their personal sphinxes and lions guardians.

I could hardly sleep for thinking about the Hermitage.

**this was before I saw the Winter Palace. Now I realize they were just making a modest effort. Though, gotta say, the Yusupov family, an older and richer dynasty than the Romanovs, had perhaps better taste. Decor shock and awe may be good political move, but it’s got to be a bitch to live with. I needed Oakleys for some of those rooms.

Tuesday, April 12, The Hermitage

April 18, 2016 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

I have a strategy for huge museums.

1. Get there early.

2. Start at the back of the top floor and work my forward and down.

3. Take the museum’s handout map and a colored marker so I can layer my own map of where I’ve been, what I saw, and notes on what to see again.

4 Tuck a half bottle of water and some kind of small but sustaining snack in my bag.

5. Bring my best manners.

Over breakfast I Googled up coffee shops near the Hermitage I could Uber to within in walking distance to the museum, and places to eat lunch. Breakfast was proofing the blog post, wolfing my porridge*, and making myself a croissant bacon and jam sandwich (don’t judge – my other options from the hotel buffet were smoked salmon and sliced tongue) which I thanked God for around 2pm when I realized I hadn’t eaten and could not bring myself to leave.

In honor of the occasion, I picked Uber Black, and for six bucks my ride was a silky smooth Mercedes. Hell to the yeah. High class.

I wore my Prague pink silk scarf. I saw this in a window as we smoothly navigate the streets

Gratitude - works for me. — Gratitude – works for me.

I was buzzing with adrenaline. We pulled up to palace square and I hopped out to the sounds of a marching band. A welcome for me? How thoughtful! A man in a Peter the Great costume was swashbuckling around.

great casting. — Great casting – he was easily 6’4″, without the hat.

I couldn’t believe I was in the frame of the picture I’d stared at so longingly for the past year. I asked a kind tourist to take my photo. It’s worth noting that If you want to connect with anyone you see of any nationality, age, or gender, approach them and ask, “can you take my photo, please?” The frowns, protestations they don’t speak English, defensive go away gestures instantly change when you proffer your iPhone with the photo screen open and the universal white button. Faces transform in mid-scowl, smiles and nods ensue. Not one exception so far. It is turning out to be the universal key that unlocks every door. And it beats selfies hands down.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":0.004832549891199633,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — I’m here. I’m really here.

Heart thumping, I scampered to the designated entrance. There was a small wooden door just inside, before the turnstile with a Friends of the Hermitage sign. I knocked and met Oksana, the same women who responded to my inquiry email all those months ago. It was a tiny office, crammed with papers and files and computers. Fifteen minutes later I had my official card and my own entrance (same door as security and employees). Slap the card on the turnstile, green lights and I’m in. That’s it.

Osaka leads me to the staircase most people see first. It’s so iconic even the swarms of posing tourists can’t obliterate the grandeur.

I remember to look up.

On my way to the third floor, I walked through a special exhibition; Two Enlightened Monarchs. I am captivated because here are the famous portraits of Peter the Great and Catherine the Great and their coterie that I’ve seen online and in the pages of books. The nuances that are flattened out in photographs are visible here. The faces that look out at me from the gilded frames are the same ones that engineered the existence of the very ground I stand on at the cost of so many lives. There is something about the fragile humanity, the aging of their faces, versus the scale of their accomplishments. They are ghosts made visible. They will stay phantoms, because special exhibits prohibit photos. This is a universal museum rule that I (almost always) respect.

I hie myself to the top floor. A pack of small school boys in blue uniform jackets with silver buttons clatter past me on the stairs. It feels like Hogwarts is on a field trip. NOTE: This will happen again and again and I have come to love it. First, these children are the future. They are our only hope, Obi wan. No joke. Second, every uniform is different – I particularly liked one that featured magenta plaid. Third, they are short enough to easily see over.

In no time I am absorbed in the realms of old and middle eastern art, like this jolly pair of Iranian girls, sisters perhaps, who apparently forgot their shirts.

If you've got it, flaunt it. — If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

By 2pm I was running on fumes, so I sat on a hard bench in the bafflingly dismal café area. (surprisingly cheap décor, Kwik Trip calibre food (sandwiches in plastic boxes, M&Ms, stale pastry) and wolfed down my smuggled snack. I regained sufficient strength and clarity of mind to go look for some real fuel. A few short blocks away I found Double B coffee & tea, aka Dablbi (Millionnaya St., 18) ) and fantastic things happened.

Octane quality, maybe even better. A temple to caffeine for the true believer.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":0.05308287590742111,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Rocket fuel for the weary traveler

Returned to the Hermitage and got back on the horse. The coat check ladies waved and smiled at me. I guess they know a lifer when they see one. This time I visited the Egyptian exhibit, a single largish room, doing all the stops on the audio tour from the Hermitage app I downloaded to my iPhone. Fascinating!

Behold the scribe. Mostly he tallied grain and livestock, but I still feel that connection over the centuries.

I spent a good hour plus, so there goes my carefully crafted schedule. On my quest for a bathroom to get rid of the coffee, I walked through the Greek and Roman statuary rooms. Coming attractions!

Reminds me of Robert. Just switch out that staff for a C-stand.

I can’t wait to come back tomorrow and do a bit of sketching. Lots of drawing going on, with really young kids who were focused and serious.

The map has been a bit confusing, but the numbers are over most of the door so I am carefully marking my path. It makes all the difference to getting me oriented.

I left at 5:30, unsure of what to do next. Thanks to my pre-made Googlemap I had a restaurant to aim for, Fruktovaya Lavka (Bolshaya Konyushennaya, ul 15.) No regrets – this little gourmet market and café had a small but choice menu. I ordered the buckwheat pasta, mostly because it came with seafood, and honestly, I didn’t know buckwheat could be this delicious. I can come back and eat here another dozen times.

Back to my hotel via Uber Black. Traffic was a bitch, but it was still six bucks.

Tomorrow, repeat.

* Porridge. My hotel offers it, but it was a bland paste, without any seasoning. On the first day, I asked them to add cinnamon. On the second day, I asked them to add chopped apple. On the third I was bold enough to ask for raisins. I have this every morning and they are getting pretty good at it.

St. Petersburg, Wednesday 13

April 19, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Still finding my feet, but growing in confidence daily, I galloped via Uber to Double B coffee. It’s really that good. Lapis lazuli skies and mild temperatures puts all of St Petersburg in charity with the world. The coffee shop is five minutes walk from the Hermitage, and everyone I pass is wearing shirt sleeves and smiling. I zip in the uncrowded entrance with my trusty Friends of the Hermitage card, and set off alarms. The unsmiling security guard glances in my bags and just as grim-faced, wave me on. I’d be glum too if the day was this beautiful and I was stuck inside frisking clueless tourists.

Bee-lined to the Greek and Roman statuary rooms, settled in to draw an enthroned Goddess. Ended up more fascinate by the young artist who set up in a little folding chair at her feet.

Ended up drawing the pair of them.

{"focusMode":1,"deviceTilt":1.309675931930542,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — The Acolyte,

At 2-ish I ate my picnic of croissant and orange slices in the cafe area, did a bit of reading, (thanks for The Rogue Not Taken, Sarah MacLean!) and listened to Ludovico Einaudi on my iPod. Every now and then I stopped, looked around me, and thought how freaking lucky I am.

I went back to the Greeks and Roman, another room, and drew a nymph holding a shell of water. Behind her was a decapitated male head, a fragment of another sculpture. It put me in mind of Salome and John the Baptist.

I walked around the rooms before I settled in. I had fun sketching the boy on a dolphin in the guestbook open nearby for visitor comments. Mim Scala, this one’s for you.

Here’s a tip, y’all. They have a couple of magnificent sarcophagus, including one that tells the (tragic) story of Hippolytus, the son of Theseus.

Falsely accused of raping his (subsequently suicidal) stepmother Phaedra, his father Theseus cursed him, and Hippolytus was dragged to death by his horses

The thing is, there’s a bit of space so you can theoretically see all four of the intricately carved sides, though it’s a squeeze – you can’t walk around it. But make the effort. The real action is on the back.

Around five o’clock I moved to the hall that ‘s near my exit and sketched this calm beauty holding a dove.

Walked out the door in a great mood and over to my dinner place of choice, Fruktovaya Lavka. Best meal yet.

Pan seared cod on tagliatelle vegetables. Divine.

Random Observations:

The rumors of how hot it is in the Hermitage are not exaggerated. You could braise a turkey on the third floor. Wear short sleeves, even if it’s snowing.

No large tour groups slam through the traveling exhibits, because the guides have established routes through the famous works in the permanent collects. If you feel lonely, visit the da Vinci madonnas, the peacock clock room, or Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son. It’s a carnival of crazed selfies and frantic posing in groups.

When even paintings of gutted swine make me salivate, I’m hungry. Time to eat.

Hey China, who’s minding the store? Cause all y’all are here, swamping the museums in squadron-sized tour groups.

You want to crack the dour Russia lady guards, watch them interact with any small child or toddler. They melt like butter on a skillet. If you catch their eye and smile, you’re in.

Hermitage, Thursday April 14

April 20, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Yesterday, short sleeve weather. Today rain. Tomorrow snow. Wow, just like home. Wore my rain boots and carried my chucks in a bag, which worked a treat. My good deed for the day was telling a woman, who hesitated at the cloak room over whether to check her fleece-lined hoodie or not, to leave it or she’d cook like a Sunday roast. Hear me now, thank me later. She left it.

Going for the early Italian rooms today. En route I paused to examine this mosaic table embellished with tiny, precise fragments of semi-precious stone.

Dogs are catching my eye - I miss my pup. — Intricate and subtle..

These chips of stone are so very small that even standing there in good light, I had to look at the close-up photo on my iPhone and use zoom to see the fine lines of the joinery.

Crowds of tourists, specifically the huge tour groups, pushed past me like 18 wheelers blowing past a Smart Car. Here’s a tip; If you want to see the marvelous Peacock clock in peace, go after 6pm on a Wednesday or Friday night. It’s an awesome experience. Of course, if you like seething crowds and a noise level like a thousand monkeys chattering on crack, be my guest.

Left the raucous peacock room and entered this calm and lovely space.

Symmetry. I'm a fan. — Symmetry. I’m a fan.

Wandered past incomparable religious works by Italian masters, which still didn’t prepare me for the glory that is the Loggia.

A copy of Raphael's testament to the glory of creation. — A copy of Raphael’s Loggia at the Vatican, his testament to the glory of creation.

It brought tears to my eyes. I can’t find the words to do the moment justice. It’s so exceptionally beautiful and complex, yet by some miracle, as crammed with visual riches as it is, it doesn’t feel fussy. How is that even possible? There are Genesis stories overhead and on every side the walls are ornamented with flora and fauna, the bounty of this world rendered with a loving eye for each detail. Even his rat is charming.

Critters. I hate rats. If you fought to get them out of your attic, you’d hate them too.

I was that tourist, the one humbly asking strangers to photograph me. But you know, even a scowling Russian man, who irritably growled, “No English,” when I approached him, changed as soon as he saw the iPhone in my hand. He smiled and nodded. Apparently the iPhone is a universal language and an instant bridge between cultures. I’m awed by its power.

Later, still reeling from the glory of Raphael’s vision, I stumbled down to the café to eat my contraband croissant. On the way, I walked though a dark red room lined with enormous paintings of hunting dogs bringing down bears and leopards, and tables laden with vegetables and game. I hastened back after my break and discovered there were, huzzah, two benches to choose from. I sketched a table draped with a peacock and rabbit, the dog underneath growling at a hissing cat.

I felt fully in my skin. This is why I came. I don’t know how this will shape my future art but I know it fed my soul.

I knew this so well and was still blown away by the scale. — I knew this image so well through photographs and was still blown away.

When I finally put down my pencil some hours and several sketches later, I looked out a window to see snow falling. Big, fat cinematic flakes. I grinned like a madwoman and babbled my new Russian word Sneg! to every guard I passed on my way out.

Walked through the heavy, wet snow, well protected by my umbrella and plenty warm enough for the ten minute hike to Fruktovaya Lavka. Devoured an excellent risotto, with chicken liver and grilled vegetables, and my favorite raspberry tart. Took my first surge-rated Uber. The exchange is so favorable that even doubled, Uber pop was around six bucks.

My iPhone rang at 1am, unknown caller. I changed my voice mail message to ‘I’m in Russia. Text is good and email is better, but if you want me to call you back, leave a message.’

Hermitage, Friday April 15

April 20, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Simple plan today. Go to Double B coffee, then up to the red room of excellent hunting dogs, and restart my exploration. Break at 5pm for dinner, then hurry back to roam the hallowed halls until 9 at night. It’s going to be a long day.

Double B coffee was having a blind tasting of beans. An educational and competitive event for whatever the coffee bean equivalent of sommelier is, I guess. There was a lot of sniffing and tasting from multiple cups.

Hard Core coffee bean aficionados, hard at work

Okay, every post could be a variation of this – I was on my way to see X, when I saw Y. Two hours later… Today I was going to the hunting dog room, when I saw a small painting with this pair of hounds.

I had to stop and draw them. Did them together and separately. A passing tourist took a photo of me that serendipitously included the guard who kept a sharp but benevolent eye on me. It’s my favorite.

After lunch I ventured to the Dutch and Flemish rooms. Oh my, Rubens. I turned a corner and blinked. It was like he suddenly turned on the lights. Everything from the rooms before receded, becoming flat and dim in memory. His work looked supercharged with life, vivid and bright. Not just his luscious woman, either. I already knew he had an unmatched grasp of the pleasure of carnality. This small portrait of fierce old man’s face stopped me in my tracks.

It was dark-thirty by the time I walked through the Rembrandt gallery. Rubens is hunger and appetite; he exults.

Rembrandt aches.

He didn’t flinch from the dark. His darkness wasn’t a featureless void, it was a deep well that he could dip into and draw out compassion and empathy. “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.” – Nietzsche. **

I got to spend a good quarter of an hour essentially alone with his Prodigal Son, a theme that resonates through my own life. Rembrandt understands the shame of degradation, the benediction of touch, the unexpected, undeserved, and unconditional welcome home.

His painting is forgiveness made visible.

**When I was checking the exact wording of the Nietzsche quote, I came across this interesting link about that very question.

Here’s a brief excerpt. “…People are losing their souls. Sex and Money are the draw. Emptiness the motivator. The hole of the abyss is filled with them, not what they were after. Addicts always start out with a view they can tempt the abyss and not be caught. Every addict ends up saying ‘Oops.'” – Mike Leary.

Saturday April 16, Kunstkamera

April 21, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Spent the early morning writing blog posts in my bed. It was a luxurious moment, relaxing in a square of sunlight, sipping my tea, resizing photos. I have to remind myself there’s no hurry to get anywhere, I am already here. No rushing in Russia.

Planned to do an audio guide walking tour of the Peter and Paul Fortress. Reading about it in the Eyewitness guide over my breakfast porridge, I started worrying about all the many variables. It’s a vast walled-island fortress. I don’t know which gate to enter. My mind started telling me I needed a day off. I should rest. I had a sudden urge to get back in bed, but the truth was I just felt anxious. Fortunately for me, I’ve learned that feelings aren’t facts, so I acknowledged my emotions, and got ready to go.

I switched my venue to the Kunstkamera, Peter the Great’s personal collection of artifacts acquired in the spirit of scientific inquiry. It sounded smaller, more contained. Smithsonian lite. I Ubered over in no traffic to speak of, with Dale Earnhardt Sr. behind the wheel. JK! It’s probably Mario Andretti. No crowds, no lines, no waiting. I opened the museum entry door and did my windmill, flailing thing. The threshold the door closes against abruptly dropped six inches **

I did the ticket booth and coat check waltz. It was rubles (cash) on the barrel here. Good thing I brought plenty. The building was sturdy, but showing signs of hard use and lack of upkeep. Two upper floors were closed. It began with tableaus of Inuit life – tools and clothing, hunting gear and toys. There were posed figures; a family unit, and a shaman tricked out in his rig. I liked this child’s toy model of a kayak.And this ritual basket , something my talented artist friend, Gin Petty, would appreciate.

This ritual mask reminded me of another ritual, in Golding’s Lord of the Flies

Before I go further, let me say that I’d read up on this museum and knew there were some creepy exhibits. My notes read – Peter The Great’s Anthropology and Ethnography Museum. Utter weirdness and cool shit. I thought I was prepared.

WARNING NOTE: Read no further if you are squeamish. Just don’t. Resist your curiosity. Skip down to the next sentence in bold.

The large well-lit room held glass jars of deformed infants and animals that Peter the Great collected. Scores of jars packed with the pitiful, pathetic and horrific. And not one two-headed baby in a jar, oh no. Shelf after shelf of them, from the utterly broken (hematomaed flippered open-spined cyclops) to the barely dented (a harelip). I thanked God I didn’t see this when I was of childbearing age. The fetuses weren’t even the worst part. To my modern CG-informed eyes they didn’t look real, they looked like Blood Salvage horror movie props. No, what got me was the shelf with a row of baby arms in glass decanters. Tiny, tender little infant arms. I thought of the story from Apocalypse Now; the guerrilla army that lopped off all the vaccinated arms of children. The horror, the horror. That’s when I wished I could run the tape backward, erase the memory.

Recall that Peter did this in the spirit of enlightened scientific inquiry. These deformed fetuses weren’t the work of Satan, he decreed. Unfortunately, he went on to add, “They were the result of disease, or the mother’s thoughts and feelings during pregnancy.” (my emphasis added) Thanks for nothing, .

That’s pretty much the only thing that could have made this worse – being handed the blame for all this human misery. Here’s the least gruesome photo in the spirit of that room.

By now I was queasy and emotionally off-balance and the vignettes of village or nomad life looked nasty, brutish and short. People in harsh conditions, scrabbling to exist.

Moving right along, I had a great encounter with a woman selling souvenirs. I liked a teeshirt that depicted the first two dogs to be rocketed into space and come back safely. I wanted a red version but my size only came in black. “Black is better,” she insisted. “It’s outer space. It’s supposed to be black.” Ha! So true. Yes, reader. I bought one. I walked instead of Ubered over to another location of my favorite restaurant, Fruktovaya Lavka. It was a half hour walk and helped to clear my head. I was in the thick of St. Petersburg daily life and happened across some delightful things, like this monument to a trolley conductor and his faithful steeds.

And these efforts to entice coffee drinkers.

Best of all, this real life Love, Actually moment.

Sadly, this outpost had fruit and veg, but no café. Ended up at Bush, a bakery and coffee place I’d starred on my Google map because, pastry! I gobbled a tomato and cheese on croissant and half of a hazel nut caramel and chocolate tart, and headed back to the sanctuary of my hotel.

**there are no lawyers in St Petersburg or there are no liability personal jury laws.

Sunday, April 17, Issaks & Spilled Blood

April 23, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood, blue skies, sunny, in the 60s. The faces of people in the street were perceptibly sunnier too, their expressions more cheerful. I decided to take advantage of this brilliant day and do some of the audio tour walks, building in little respites so I don’t over do it. My art-finding mission will be met by visiting two of the churches on my must-see list; St. Issacs and The Church on the Spilled Blood.** Plus, it’s Sunday.

I made a simple plan using Google maps – 10 minutes to an old school coffee shop, The Nutcracker, near that balletomane shrine, the Mariinsky Theater. I’d pause for a restorative espresso, then walk another 25 minutes to the childhood home of Vladimir Nabokov, and pause again to genuflect before the master wordsmith and lepidopterist. Another 15 minutes walk would take me to the monumental ecclesiastic architecture of St Isaac’s Cathedral. After absorbing all the spiritual grace available, walk eight minutes to the well-reviewed Teplo restaurant. From there, Uber over to Church on the Spilled Blood, that postcard for St Petersburg, followed by dinner at Fruktovaya Lavka, another eight minutes walk, and a final Uber back to the hotel. Sounds like a modest plan, right?

Did I mention I’m listening to an audio book of Speak, Memory, Nabokov’s blindingly intelligent , deeply evocative memoir of his life in pre-soviet Russia? Yep, and it’s read by someone with the most sonorous, basso profundo voice you can imagine. Hearing Nabokov describe growing up in a St. Petersburg mansion and on country estates, his patrimony and lineage part of the air he breathed, the inevitable future losses shadowing every bright memory – fencing in the library, evading his fat French governess, seeking secluded halls of the Hermitage for sexual trysts – was an excellent choice.

Here’s what happened.

I didn’t stop for the coffee because wasn’t tired and wanted to push on while I was still fresh. Nabokov house, listed on the internet as open on Sunday, was closed today. A piece of paper in the window broke the news. I was passing Teplo before I got to the cathedral so I stopped and drew a lapdog on one of the pair of chalkboards that line the alley entry to the restaurant.

Walked on to St. Issac’s Cathedral and, after a brief battle with the ticket-dispensing machinery, successfully bought a ticket to both the interior and to climb to the top of the bell tower. The interior is vast. I made myself dizzy looking up.

Lit seven candles for family and friends before an icon of the Virgin.

So much hope and heartbreak represented by these slender candles.

I headed over to climb up the the 200 plus steps – Robin, you are my inspiration – and realized I’d lost my ticket. Ah well. Maybe it’s for the best, a sign of a benevolent creator.

I walked back to the charming Teplo and had a great meal of sautéed fish and fresh vegetables.

The menus were totes adorb.

Retro photos of happy families. No, I'm not going to quote Tolstoy. — Retro photos of happy families. No, I’m not going to quote Tolstoy.

The whole place had a childlike, Mr. Rogers comes to Russia vibe, like this giant courtyard chess set for children.

Ubered to Church on the Spilled Blood, with it’s fairytale exterior. Consider that most fairytales are terrifying. The wolf eats grandma, the mermaid walks on knives, parents abandon their children in the woods. It’s better to show than tell about the interior. Here’s a glimpse of a corner. spilled blood video.

An explosion of pattern and color. — Big, bold pattern and color in your face.

I appreciated the audio guide, especially for the specifics on how different mosaics were created. To an artist, that’s fascinating.

Extraordinary craftsmanship — Small, subtle and extraordinary.

After an hour of craning my neck and staring agog, I walked up the main drag, Nevsky Prospect, hoping to find some Russian cosmetics to take back home to my girls. No luck, one place directed me to another, and so forth. But I did get to see this other Love, Actually moment. There was smooching and he was, adorably, trading his hat for hers, completely oblivious to the crowds surging by on the street.

Hello, young lovers. I miss you, Boatie.

It was getting lateish, after 6, so I checked Google maps and thought a 30 minute walk, that’s not so bad, and I need to buy some milk. I set out in the direction of my hotel.I shouldn’t have. I really shouldn’t have.

That last fifteen minutes I went from tired to limping to painful hobbling. I need to face the fact that just because I think I ought to be able to do it, and I am willing to do it, doesn’t mean I can do it or I should do it. In all, I walked 6.8 miles. I think five miles is my limit. I will for damn sure take Uber everywhere tomorrow. I’ll be aided in my resolve by the fact it’s supposed to rain all day.

** So named because it marks the exact spot where Tzar Alexander II was blown up by terrorist’s bomb in 1881. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Funded by the imperial family, it housed a shrine and held memorial services for the fallen Tzar. After the October Revolution it was used as a morgue and as a vegetable warehouse. It’s now officially the Museum of Mosaics. Thank God.

Monday, April 18 – The Russian Museum

April 24, 2016 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

It was a blustery day of squalls. I Ubered to Double B coffee, passing this statue that always starts the William Tell Overture playing in my head. Hi yo Silver, away!

Fortified with a cup of their smooth brew, I started my walk to the Benois branch of the Russian Museum. Only a ten minute stroll, but by the time I passed the Church on the Spilled Blood, rain was pelting down. Despite rain boots, raincoat and sturdy umbrella, my jeans were going from damp to drenched. It was raining so hard water bounced up from the cobblestones and riccocheted from the surface of the canal. I sloshed onward as far as Café Berlin where I stopped for an early lunch, in hopes the downpour would ease up.

I ordered a burger, a sure sign that I’m missing home. It arrived, pretty as a picture, but it was like a burger made by someone who’d read about them and seen photographs, but hadn’t actually eaten one. The sesame seed bun was as dry and crisp like a meringue. The meat, while tasty, had an odd, pebbled texture, and was topped with pesto and pickles. I asked for a cheese burger and they slapped on mozzarella. Fries were great.

Sure enough, the sun came blazing out and I hoofed it to the Russian Museum of Art. A completely different experience from the Hermitage – less formal, less crowded (praise all the Russian Saints), and more relaxed. The change of pace was welcome. The art wasn’t as spectacular, but more than one piece made it not only worthwhile, but gave me reasons to return. I adored this painting of Phryne. I circled back to it twice, and sat on a bench and absorbed what I could. Similar to the Slav epic in scale (huge) but more celebratory. Thanks, Semiradsky.

As always, I noticed the dogs, like this jaunty, backlit fellow.

Detail of a larger hunting-themed painting. I miss you. Maddy.

The grimacing, half concealed faces worked into the design of this wall embellishment fascinated me.

This statue of Catherine and her page had marvelous textural detail.

It took a lot of self-discipline to not reach out and stroke this. — It took a lot of self-discipline to not stroke this.

And, according to the museum note, this naughty satyr is just being helpful, tying the nymph’s sandals. Riiiight.

Personally, I think he's taking them off, not tying them on. Museum interpretations can be so prissy. — Personally, I think he’s taking it off, not tying it on. Museum interpretations can be so prissy.

My favorite was this painting of a knight at a crossroads by Vasnetsov.

I overheard a guide tell five military officers that it’s from a Russian folktale. The knight must choose his direction. If he goes right, women and marriage. If he turns left, he’ll have wealth and land. If he rides straight ahead, war and death. He chooses the straight ahead path. I couldn’t help but mutter, if he picked the right woman he could have marriage, wealth, and all the fighting he wanted. Probably great makeup sex too. One of the military guys cracked a smile. They weren’t Americans or Russians, or they wouldn’t have had an English speaking guide.

I stood there and drew a couple of versions.

It reminded me of the painting in the Musée d’Orsay of a defeated cavalry solder riding home through fields of tulips, lance dragging, head bowed. The way I often feel after a full museum day, dragging my ass home through a field of glorious beauty. So much art, so little time. But I forgot one of the best attributes of this museum.

Yay, sofas.

I had planned to walk through the connected wing of the Benois, but fatigue overruled me. I sensibly walked to my dinner place, and after an excellent risotto, called it a day. Tomorrow, return to the Hermitage.