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