Virginia Parker

Saturday, April 30, and now for something completely different

May 4, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Woke at five and wrote two blog entries, which took me to 10:45 mostly because I get caught up in editing and looking up clarifications on the internet and time flies away. I approached the concierge about negotiating entrance to the Hermitage Storage Facility and the Stieglitz Academy and Museum over the phone, and she went to bat for me immediately. No luck. The Hermitage played pass-the-problem-to-another-department until she called one that doesn’t answer their phones. The plucky and determined concierge, named Xenia after the patron saint of the city, assured me she’d keep trying. She was wry and expressive and funny and clearly capable. Just watching her work her magic over the phone was entertaining.

I walked to the corner to try the Angel of Happiness café, and it was way too high-end hip and crowded. I loved the place mat.

My server didn’t approve of my choice to have milk with my granola instead of yogurt, and let her displeasure be known. The granola was great, like a homemade version of Sugar Smacks loaded with many varieties of nuts. Took this photo of this guy outside the window, holding a bouquet of daisies and texting, thinking he’s’ gonna get lucky.

The girl in the yellow coat facing the other direction, across the street? That's a story right there. — The girl in the yellow coat facing the other direction, across the street? That’s a story right there.

Before I left, he walked in with the object of his affection; a blonde in supple black leather. No wonder he was so hopeful.

Decided to walk to the Benois wing of the Russian museum and set out, following my Google Maps GPS. I pasted in an address from my master list. Bad call. It led me far away in the wrong direction. When I figured out I had nearly walked back to my old hotel, I stopped and called Uber. Know when you are defeated.

Scooted to the first place on my shopping list, Loft Project Etazhi (74 Ligovsky Prospect). I vaguely recalled it described as many arty shops in a loft. Pay dirt! Walked into the courtyard from the street into a mash-up of Wonderroot, Krog Street market, Homegrown, with an East Atlanta/Earl vibe. Skinny, young(er) people with bubblegum pink streaks in peacock blue hair, or shaved and cut at angles, or – extra credit – a sprongy mass of dreds to the waist. Guys with green top knots. Everyone pecking away on their phones, more texting then talking. Lots of I-am-too-cool-to have-a-facial-expression stares, but also lots of little kids, from babes in arms to toddlers lurching around, to resigned youths of eight or nine glued to their iPhones. It reminded me of Krog Street Market, but much rougher physically, People kept pouring in, paying 100 rubles to get in the loft door. It was a street party in an alley.

The interior was falling apart (sections of the wooden bannister rail came off in my hand. Twice,) but creatively divvyed up. Multiple tiny cubbies, made with loving hands out of scrap wood and lollypop colored plastic panels and insulation board. Raw edges and patchwork of found materials; the unisex bathroom stall doors were made out of insulation foam boards.

tat head — Poster boy for their target market.

There were five floors of these hole-in the-wall-shops stocked with hipster/boho/Goth/hippie/rocker/souvenier merch. Excellent! Some American thrift store tat, cool local designers who must be sewing in their bedrooms, sneakers, ‘herbs’, soap, pizza on hotplates and pushed through windows, magnets, charms, cards, leather cuff bracelets, and so on.

I thought this would be ideal for Robin, but needed her confirmation. Texted her the photo.

Simple in color, complex in design. Moves beautifully. Photo does not do it justice.

I didn’t hear back – I think it was 2am her time – so ended up buying a few small things and a teeshirt. On the fourth floor I stepped into a large open restaurant where the bread factory had been. Made by loving hands hippie decor reminded me of back in the day in Haight-Ashbury. Wooden crates, for light fixtures, tin buckets for delivering the check, Yellow butterflies cut out of construction paper and tacked onto every exposed surface; walls, ducts, columns, windows, and tables. I thought of Remedios the Beauty in 100 Years of Solitude who metamorphoses into yellow butterflies. Or maybe it’s a sly reference to Nabokov. The window ledges were lined with tropical plants and desert cacti.

Intended to order something safe, but asked the waitress what she suggested. Mushroom pancakes was her answer and I said yes, though my heart sank. She brought me blini with fresh sautéed mushrooms in a light cream sauce and it was fantastic. My lucky day!

Three costumed figures turned up. I don’t know if they were folk tale Russian characters or hipster weirdness. This couple wandered around doing mime and posing with the clientele.

A top floor art gallery displayed drippy versions of famous people; Bill Murray, Frida Kahlo, Woody Allen. No Russians. The air was redolent with Hookah smoke, pizza, sneezy incense, coffee, and that essential oils and soap reek. Thumping club music, twittery electronica, American R&B made it an ongoing battle of the bands. Looked out the window and saw the green buds of birch tree leaves dotting the bare branches and remember how when he saw the sticky little leaves as they open in spring, Ivan Karamazov fell back in love with the world he wanted to renounce. Then this happened;

On the way out I bought myself a soft, clementine orange bag in leather-ish material made in St Petersburg. Just a simple tote, but it pleased me mightily. Left with Incense clinging to my hair like a halo.

Ubered back to the Astoria with its distinctive red awnings and air of prosperity and permanence. Got a yes to the shirt from Robin, so will return and nab it tomorrow. The concierge had worked magic – I’m scheduled for tours in both places. Russian language, but that doesn’t matter, I just want to look. She said they were impressed I was from Atlanta because of our famed Kimball museum. Um, no. That’s in Fort Worth.

Sunday, May 1, Labor Day Parade and Kazan Cathedral

May 6, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Today was crazy in the best possible way. My plan had been to walk to the Kazan Cathedral, Uber over the shop in Loft Project Etazhi and buy that perfect flowy-yet-structured blouse for Robin, and end the day visiting the Benois wing of the Russian Museum.

I walked to the corner and grabbed a flat white double shot and an almond croissant. Started toward Kazan, looked up from my iPhone map and realized the intersection with Nevsky Prospekt was empty. What the what? This is the 5th Avenue and Broadway of St. Petersburg, thronging with humanity and bumper to bumper cars 24/7.

I turned onto Nevsky Prospekt to find police and soldiers lining the curbs, one every ten or 12 feet. They looked really young, in their teens and early twenties. A parade was coming in 15 minutes. I’d been told the Victory Day Parade was on the 9th, but this was the Labor Day Parade, International Workers Day.

I changed my plans instantly. Not missing this once in a lifetime experience. Turns out, though it looked like they were braced for riots, the parade was as mellow as the Inman the Park Festival, even without my funky favorites, the Seed and Feed Abominable Marching Band. Balloons galore, babies in strollers, girls in short skirts with pompoms, and homemade floats in the back of pickup trucks. It was an entirely peaceful crowd, and most of the people walking in the parade looked like they were doing a 5K for charity. Ambling along, smiling at the blue sky, babies on shoulders.

Happy folks marching in celebration — Happy Labor Day! I’d bet cash money they’d all vote for Bernie.

There were occasional synchronized cheers, but for what, I have no clue. A proud Putin supporter on the sidelines waved his flag. Everybody got along.

The cops were mostly there to keep people from swarming the streets with their iPhone cameras, and from crossing in front of the marchers. A lost cause, that. The babushkas did it anyway, and the boy soldiers got red-faced, and looked like they wanted to cry. I posted a clip on FaceBook of a lady drum line – adorable and so perky. May 9th is when the tanks roll down the streets and I was told that, from now until then everybody takes time off, like our unofficial Christmas to New Year’s break.

After an hour of happy Russian people on parade goodness, I walked up the street to the Kazan Cathedral. Outside, a choir sang in celebration of Orthodox Easter.

Inside, I lit candles for my family and friends.

I wrote a prayer request list too and the lady who took it and my ruble donation sternly demanded, ‘Orthodox?’ ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Catholic?’ she asked. ‘Yes.’ Turns out that got my prayers in the right slot of the box at her side. I didn’t ask if the two slots were for the sheep and the goats. I’ll wait on Judgement day for that. I thought the Kazan was officially a museum, not a place of worship, but people were lined up to touch this particular icon, and press their foreheads or lips to the lower right side of it. Nuns patrolled the aisles, plucking out candle stubs and swiping the glass framed icons with rags that I hoped were soaked in disinfectant. The touching and kissing of icons is something I witnessed in every church I ventured in.*

Urbered to the Etazhi market to buy that blouse for Robin. Alas, the shop was closed and no days/times posted. A kind woman on the register in a nearby shop tried to call them, but the number posted was defunct. Strike one.

Wandered around the Benois wing of the Russian museum, 20th century art that, to my prejudiced eye, was mostly lame, but a few things stood out in a good way A portrait of women mill workers.

Alexander Dieneka, 1927, Textile Workers

It remindedme of the movie Norma Rae, and this portrait of three oncologists in Edinburgh.

This elegant small watercolor of an African woman.

This, mostly because the the delicious light on her toes.

And this happy go lucky duo.

The clock was running an hour fast. I thought a great title would be 'Does it feel hot to you? I'm burning up. , — I imagine it’s a comment on the global climate crisis. “Does it feel hot to you? I’m burning up.”

I had another great dinner at Fruktovaya Lavka. They brought me a special plate of Russian Easter treats, on the house. A stollen type bread, cubes of ricotta cheese, nut, and fruit spread, and a colored hardboiled egg.

By the time I walked back to the Astoria, I had racked up 5.75 miles. Sleepily making plans for tomorrow, since the Hermitage is closed on Mondays.

*Still thinking about what separates spiritual from superstition, and what part ritual plays in a spiritual life. I light candles to direct and focus my intentions, not to solicit divine intervention. I believe in a power greater than myself, I just don’t expect to have any control over it.

Monday, May 2, Loft Project Etazhi, 3rd time lucky

May 7, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Monday, another day when I have to remind myself that I don’t have a plan, I have a purpose, slow down and just look around. Be in the moment.

Walked towards Double B coffee & tea for my favorite coffee. Passing through Palace Square, I found out just what Russians do with that wide open area on the day the museum is closed.

I found a note on the Double B door saying they weren’t opening until 11. Knew better than to skip breakfast, and went looking for the pyshki (Russian Krispy Kreme-type doughnut) place. No luck, but Fruktovaya Lavka was right there, and open, so I went in and had apple pancakes (blini with chopped, sautéed apples), a great double shot cappuccino, and updated the blog while I ate. With my Mac Air in my backpack, I walked over to the Russian Museum, intending to pay homage to Phryne and maybe draw for awhile. Encountered the long lines I’d only heard about. Turned right around, called Uber and went to Loft Project Etazhi to snag that super cool top for Robin. Hooray, they were open, OMG they wanted cash. I tried to pull cash out of a nearby ATM with my AmEx or Visa but no go. Slightly more determined than discouraged, I Ubered back to the hotel, ate an apple, pulled my debit card out of my safe, hit the ATM in the Astoria. Back I went to the Etazhi. It is always lively, hipsters families must be coming from miles around. I’m still amazed at how shoddy and squalid the building itself is, but feel right at home. I buy the shirt (third time lucky!) buy another teeshirt with flying Hermitage cats (sales supports homeless people and autism research). Counting the few rubles I have left, I ascend the stairs to the Green Room Café, which I think of as the yellow butterfly restaurant. No credit cards welcome here either. I can afford tomato soup and bottle of water. There are young kids everywhere, squirming in high chairs, sleeping in their mothers arms or solemnly thumbing an iPhone A woman with beautiful dreds eats her lunch with one eye on her toddler.Headed towards to Dostoyevsky’s parish church, Vladimir Icon of the Mother of God Cathedral. Completed in 1783, it has five different-sized onion-shaped cupolas, some currently undergoing restoration. Bells were ringing as I walked up.

Inside, a priest was chanting a mass, while swinging a censor and circling a low altar for his congregation of seven wizened, white-haired parishioners.

I sat half-hidden by a column and thought how lucky I was have made this journey to St. Petersburg. Before I left, I bought bright red wallet cards of icons and some red candles that I lit for my dear ones. Left feeling tranquil and happy. Ubered back to the Astoria, listening to Peter the Great.

Tuesday, May 3, Stieglitz Tour, Zoom lunch

May 8, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Did laundry in the sink, because I need thin socks to wear now that St Petersburg has blue skies and 60 degree weather. The lovely Astoria had heated towel racks that will dry them in a trice.

Ate my breakfast downstairs. It was a tad formal for my relaxed Beverly Hillbillies style, but they seated me with a view of the Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. Service was impeccable, performed by waitstaff so attractive you’d think you were in LA. When I asked for porridge with raisins, it appeared in a porcelain bowl. My double shot cappuccino was world class. I ate while I sized photos for the blog, happy as an overpriced clam on ice in a silver bowl.

Ubered over to the Stieglitz museum and Academy of Art and Design. The driver was a double for Herc on The Wire. His English was serviceable and he wanted to chat, a double rarity among Russian Uber drivers. He told me he had worked in Moscow for 30 years, but he liked living in St Petersburg better. No, he didn’t go to the May 1 parade, he didn’t approve of those politics. On impulse, I showed him my video clip on my phone of the perky, prancing Russian drummer girls and he softened like butter in the tropics.

Popped out at the Stieglitz, and knocked on the door. My stout guide had an air of benevolent command and was the the doppelgänger of the announcer in the Wendy’s Burger ad from the 80s. She unlocked the first of many sets of metal gates, and off we went, her chatelaine of keys rattling. Stieglitz created a monument to the applied art and design, making the building itself a kind of visual text book, a marvelously illustrated folio of arts and crafts through the ages. Both students and the graduates of the school actively participated in the painting and decoration. The interior murals and frescos were copied from both Italian and Moscovian Palaces; hall after hall, ceiling after ceiling.

I wanted to fall to my back on the floor and just soak it in. I had a fantasy of lying on a well-padded handcart and being wheeled through the halls.

Turns out the school is closed on Mondays and we had the place to ourselves. My guide would point and announce ‘perspective’, or ‘19th century’.

Certain words, like cloisonné, required no translation. Gestures, and writing dates with her finger in dust, worked well. I discovered I preferred non-verbal tours. I spent more time looking and less time talking. She lingered near the textiles: wall mounted glass cases of dolls dressed in the regalia of their Russian region, cases of vintage French silk upholstery swatches, dresses for brides and pregnant woman, elaborate headdresses, variations on the embroidered coif.

We strolled halls lined with Spanish, French, and Italian escritoires ornamented with carving, petra dure mosaics, marquetry.

Galleries surrounding a central courtyard exhibition space were lined with copies of the broken, powerful figures of the Parthenon friezes.

Paint spattered, well-used easels and rickety chairs were set up for students.Restoration work from the depredations of the Soviet era is ongoing.

I got excited over a small metal box and communicated via my iPhone that I was making a bronze casket, after which she brought me behind the velvet ropes and opened various boxes for me to examine.

I typed ‘I prefer skill and beauty,’ and she sighed and indicated she loved medieval period. We bonded.

An intricately carved wooden box bed had us both in raptures.

For all that the Stieglitz was plundered by the Soviets and left dusty, stripped of acquisitions, and frayed around the edges, it was still a treasure house of imagery and cultural achievements, and she was its keeper. We walked the halls for over an hour. I departed filled to the brim with beauty and possibilities, and a deep happiness that this cradle for applied arts survived being looted, whitewashed, and turned into a gym. It was, without a doubt, the best 2000 rubles I ever spent.

Recall how disappointed I was, how angry at being thwarted when I first knocked on this door and was turned away? I had to figure out a way to finagle a tour, which resulted in this deeply satisfying experience. ‘Things have a mysterious way of working out,’ as my friend Tom Magill used to say. Have a little faith.

Afterwards I called Uber and went to Café Zoom. Score! Delightful ambience, great food, and best of all, kind, smiling waitstaff. Very like Teplo, with a playful menu and a sense that families were welcome. I started with a salad of fresh shaved carrots and apples, my entree was cod on mashed potatoes, and I drank a non-alcoholic mojito; 7-up, lime, and mint. Very refreshing. The check came in a children’s book about a frog.

I wish I'd had room for a piece of that cake. — I wish I’d had room for a piece of that cake.

It was 3pm by the time I walked back to Astoria. I did the bulk of my packing for the trip home, and some reading. Thank you, Rose Lerner, for Listen to the Moon, book three of the Lively St. Lemeston series. Her story about an out of work valet and his maid of all work sweetheart fit right in with my day spent in glorious halls that needed dusting. Read until midnight, but didn’t wake until 7, so that’s good.

Last night I felt like I might be sickening, coming down with something; sore throat, headache. Not cholera, but not good. Uh oh.

Wednesday, May 4th. Part One – Hermitage Storage Facility

May 15, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It all funneled down to this day. Things fell off my hopeful maybe? list like hanged men dropped on a gallows. No way I’d get to the Museum of Politics or the Alexander Nevsky Monastery where Dostoyevsky lies restlessly interred. Ah well. Enough is as good as a feast.

I updated and sized photos* then skipped downstairs to breakfast with my order queued up on my Google Translate app; porridge with raisins, brown sugar, and cinnamon on the side, please. “Would you like the cappuccino you ordered yesterday, Ma’am?” asked the maître d’, appearing at my elbow. They’d been taking notes. The waiter looked at my order, hesitated, then suggested perhaps it would be better if they softened the raisins in warm water for me first. It was hard to keep a straight face. “Thanks, but no.” Chewing fresh golden raisins is no hardship. I nearly added, ‘it’s fortunate that someone of my advanced years can sit up and take nourishment at all.’

I Ubered about 25 minutes in light traffic to the storage facility of the Hermitage, where they keep objects that need special care, restoration, and those thousands of items that don’t have a slot on the hallowed Hermitage walls. I don’t know how they decide what is displayed and what goes on hiatus.

I’d hoped for a glimpse of paintings from the Northern renaissance and reliquaries that could serve as inspiration for my own design and build metal projects. Instead, I was added to the only available tour, a Russian language group of parents and children, from middle school age, to mobile enough get into mischief, down to a nursing infant in arms. Surprisingly, this turned out well. I didn’t see works of the kind I generaly seek out, but what was deemed sufficiently engaging for children was right up my equine alley. The guide began with saddles and carriages of the Romanovs.

Diamonds on the soles of her shoes immediately started playing in my head.

Painted wood versus chunky embroidery. Not sure which would be the most uncomfortable.

Fringes vs a decent pommel you could grab if the horse got frisky. — Decent pommel you could grab if the horse got frisky or attractive fringe? Tough call.

sad cheetah 2 — More of saddle blanket than a saddle. You can see where the rider’s legs wore away the fur on the sides of the cheetah.

I roamed around peering into things while the guide nattered on in Russian. I liked being able to look closely, instead of feigning polite attention. One small boy set off impressive alarms by wandering deep into the display area behind the red ropes. He only did it once.

One of the carriages was a magnificent red affair

Crown on the roof. In case you were looking down from a rooftop.

Fabergé copied it on a minuscule scale, turned it into a mechanical toy, and hid it inside one of their famed eggs. It can still propel itself on tiny wheels.

I loved the painted carriages. I’m about to get my Prius painted (blue instead of that boring inoffensive and dull beige it’s been since 2007), but part of me wants to do something like this.

Or like this tiny sleigh. Very popular in Holland at the time – note the windmill on the right.

Rolling art.

Detail; Figureheads. lions, and dolphins, oh my! — Figureheads. lions, and dolphins, oh my!

From there we went to a room of works undergoing restoration. We had out own personal guard, who didn’t do much more than open doors and herd stragglers.

Our guard across from racks of stored paintings. — On duty, across from racks of stored paintings.

The paintings each of these unit holds are listed on the sides.

What I wouldn't give to be turned loose in here for, say, a decade. — What I wouldn’t give to be turned loose in here for, say, a decade.

A few bits of paper were taped to the exit door, visual notes on works undergoing restoration.

Next we were led down featureless corridors and in and out of elevators until we arrived in a room packed with large frescoes on one end, and small icons on the other. Everything was hung behind glass, under strict light and climate control.

{"focusMode":1,"deviceTilt":0.04562060435744719,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Closeup of an Icon supported by brackets on a grid system. The light was dim while we were there, and the lights went off when we left.

{"focusMode":1,"deviceTilt":-0.002587393918309644,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Precious, in every real sense of the word

Some wild version of St. George? Or an archangel snuffing out a demon? Russian saint? — An archangel snuffing out a demon? Russian saint? Gabriel blowing his horn on judgement day?

He looks showroom ready, almost too clean. Also, disappointed, weary, and cynical. A visual shrug. Very Russian — This Christ looks showroom ready, almost too clean. He seems faintly disappointed and slightly cynical. Very Russian expression.

I’m breaking this excursion in two parts, since there were multiple categories of treasures and too much I want to show rather than tell. Plus, my adventure is nearly over and I hate to let it go.

Next up: Chairs, Couture, & Camping.

*If I didn’t hook up my phone to the computer, I’d be screwed when it comes to uploading photos. It’s still seems glitchy, but it’ll be important to know when I’m arranging the next long journey.

Wednesday, May 4, part two, Hermitage Storage Facility

May 16, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

After the regal equipage, paintings, icons and frescoes, we were taken to view a variety of furniture, mostly chairs.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":-0.03015134669840336,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Chairs and more chairs.

There were wonderfully elaborate examples, great fun to look at, but surely purgatory to sit on.

Cherub heads and velvet worn to the nap .

La-Z-Tsar. Even royals can’t resist a good recliner

chair neauvou — Looks shockingly modern in this context.

Lovely needlepoint — Lovely and bold needlepoint

After this we were led through a large room filled with brilliantly colored cloth tents. I imagined them being used for weddings or warfare. I had a dearth of facts, so I let my imagination run free.

s tent coat — I was surprised to see this. I have a coat very like this one. It came to me from Afghanistan by way of NYC back in 1975

There were several exhibits of court finery. Unfortunately, most of my photos were spoilt by glare.

Lastly, these two garments.

Sleeve of Peter the Great — Sleeve of a coat worn by Peter the Great. He had a very recognizable silhouette – great height, narrow shoulders. He liked ease of movement. That sleeve inside the sleeve helped hold in warmth. And those buttons!

My personal favorite, a coachman’s hat for those really special occasions.

After several hours, this visit was done. Uber found me on the steps, and hauled me back to the city for my last meal and final visit to the Hermitage proper. That will be my final post of this trip.

Wednesday, May 4, part three. Finale.

May 17, 2016 by Virginia Parker 2 Comments

How can this be over? I didn’t get a chance to mention the hurdy gurdy man with the raccoon on a leash, or the woman who was texting with one hand and holding her toddler’s hand with the other, slowly circumnavigating a fountain while her child walked along the rim. This illustrated lineage of the doomed Romanovs, which made ‘end of the line‘ a visual truth.A display of court dress for a trio of lordlings.

So much I had to leave out, but don’t want to forget.

I’d Ubered back from the Hermitage Storage facility around 3:00, and stopped for a farewell meal at Fruktovaya Lavka.

Meatballs with pureed peas and cranberry sauce? Da!

Finished with a raspberry custard tartlet. Not too big, not too small, not too sweet, not too tart. Just right.

Turns out my favorite server had an avocation as a clown. Here she is, ready to do a show in her bride costume. She was unfailingly patient and kind to me.

I walked the few blocks to the Hermitage. The route – through gated courtyards, down streets alongside canals, and over bridges – was familiar now. I passed by the Hermitage Theater with its supporting cast of mighty men, holding up the portico.

There was scaffolding going up on three sides of the palace square, and Victory Day banners hung. Catherine the Great was arguing with someone on her cell phone. I raced through the maze of the Hermitage to their post office, but it was closed, which meant the last two dozen postcards would have to be mailed by the Astoria*. The Hermitage was open until 9pm, the tour groups were gone and I was free to wander. First, a long slow walk down the length of the Loggia.

I sat in the room of paintings of tables heaped with plenty, produce and game, fowl and seafood. Out of context, this a pair of turtles look romantically inclined.

I blew kisses to Rubens and and solemnly bid farewell to Rembrandt’s Prodigal.

My final destination was the Crouching Boy, the only work by Michelangelo in Russia. It was hewn from a cramped cube of marble no one else wanted.

I said hello to him for my nephew, William Rich, whose encouragement helped me summon the courage to visit St. Petersburg. I said goodbye for me. It’s unlikely I will ever return. Leaving the Winter Palace was wrench, but with a 4am departure to the airport scheduled, I couldn’t afford to stay to the bitter end.

Well and truly tired, I walked back through the now familiar streets to the hotel.
Last days are like first days; you are wide open, unwilling to miss a moment, keenly aware of your surroundings, and what a marvel life itself is.

My view of Russia has changed, from notions created secondhand by propaganda and politics, to a reality experienced firsthand. St Petersburg has its own distinct shape in my memory, with a slant of light all its own. Cultures are infinite in variety, yet the same across all geopolitical boundaries – everyone wears denim and everyone carries cell phones.

So, where to next? The smart money is on Rome, if I can wrangle some kind of pass to the Vatican Museum. But I am open to suggestions.

*I handed over the postcards to the front desk at the Astoria, who promised to mail them. They still haven’t arrived. But it’s only been two weeks.

The Eternal City

August 2, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Next spring I’m traveling to Rome, and taking six weeks to wash the dust of the world from my soul. My primary goal is to thoroughly explore the Vatican Museums. It’s a challenging prospect; this bastion of papal privilege is filled to the brim with the best art that power and wealth could accumulate, but housed in a venue conceived and built for the delectation of a very limited audience. As a building, it was neither planned for nor concerned with the priorities and comfort of multitudes tourists.
As I see it, the three most daunting obstacles are

The one way system. There are set routes through the museum and no backtracking is permitted.
The paucity of bathrooms. I’ve read there are four. Holy cow.
The surge of tourists, art lovers and pilgrims alike, that can transform the experience of viewing art into something resembling an overcrowded TSA line.

I am going to have to bring my A-game in terms of strategy. I hope I am equal to the task.

Retrato_del_Papa_Inocencio_X._Roma,_by_Diego_Velázquez — “Troppo vero!”

The beauty part is Rome is covered up in amazing venues. Not only is every church door is worth opening, there are private museums I plan to visit and revisit. Caravaggio’s The Repentant Magdalene and Rest on the Flight into Egypt would be more than enough to bring me back to the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj, but they also have Velázquez’s portrait of Innocent X.

Two Weeks In Trastevere

August 14, 2016 by Virginia Parker 2 Comments

I’ve wanted to stay in Trastevere since my first visit to Rome. We followed my niece through the cobbled streets along twisting alleyways, listening to the rats dive into the river Tiber, until we found the restaurant, da Luce (now Hosteria Luce).

I’ve since eaten there three times and painted one of the meals. Although bloggers and TripAdvisor all lament that Trastevere is no longer what it once was (and who among us is?), that it has become a tourist-infested, rowdy students, all-night party zone, I was hoping to find something that would work for me. I looked up Hosteria Luce online, and they’ve tarted the joint up with chandeliers and schmancy cuisine, but maybe they still make spaghetti cacio & pepe. Here’s hoping.

After prowling various apartment vacation rental sites, and getting some interesting feedback on TripAdvisor, I found several promising apartments. I exchanged emails with a Trastevere couple. One poster warned to stay away from two ‘party’ piazzas and the busy main highway, and with the magic of Google maps I could determine the flat I liked wasn’t on those piazzas or near that road. After not sleeping in Madrid, I’ve learned to read reviews carefully and do my due diligence. I even I PM’d one of their last guests (formerly from our neighborhood in Atlanta – small world) who assured me noise was not an issue.

I rolled the dice and booked it for the first two weeks of my trip, when Robert is joining me. I hope I have chosen wisely – an apartment not on a square or piazza, tucked away on a pedestrian street, with a small balcony and a fair amount of space. It’s one block and an alley away from Hosteria Luce.

Trastevere Espresso Finito, oil on canvas

Boston Uncommon

September 26, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Blame it on the Museum of Fine Art, Boston.

This is the second time they’ve hooked me with one of their bewitching lures – an exhibit of works by William Merritt Chase, prolific painter and teacher.

Of course I know and admire his work. Of course the show opens in October and closes in January.

I teetered on the brink for a few days. It’s a tight window and bad timing – we’re already traveling and gone for a week in November, the family’s here for Christmas, and with setting off for Rome scheduled for February, how can I possibly go?

Boston’s winter weather is frigid. The hotels are frighteningly expensive.

But at the same time as this show, there’s an illuminated manuscripts exhibit at the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum. Not to mention, but I must, an exhibit of 100 pieces of Nubian gold work at the MFA.

The deciding vote was cast by intense yearning. Also, tick-tock, it makes no sense to put anything off. I should go while I still can, while my knees still bend and my eyes, however blearily, still see. Who knows what challenges tomorrow may bring? Seriously, what am I waiting for?

Yesterday and today I’ve been playing with the pieces, juggling exhibition dates, prior plans, Robert’s schedule, flight cost and room expense/availability.

Mid-October, every place I’d like to stay is booked, November ditto, plus dizzying prices. I played around with some early December dates, but the B&Bs were still booked up and the hotels are, well, too costly for me. AirB&Bs were surprisingly thin on the ground and seemed sketchy.

No surprise, $300-400 rooms plummet to $108- $195 after New Years. I figure it’s not going to get any colder in January – or not that much colder – and boy, is it ever cheaper. The sweet spot for me is Jan. 4-11th.

I’m looking at a big hotel across the street from Boston’s main public library (murals by Sargent), a compact boutique hotel known for helpful service, and three B&Bs. No matter where I stay, I’ll be Ubering through the snowflakes, thank you very much. When I am done being ravished by art, I want a soft, warm place to land.

I found a thrifty Delta flight, but I’m making myself wait until Tuesday to pull the trigger since so many sources claim that’s the best day to get the best deal.

There was a happy moment when realized my Russian gear – those impervious snow boots and mountain-climber-grade warm coat – will be perfect for Boston in January. Another good reason to go! It’s a return on my initial investment, right?