restaurant – Page 3

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.’

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.

Tuesday, April 19, Hermitage

April 25, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Back to the Hermitage. Hey, it’s why I filled out all that paperwork and journeyed all these miles. Totally worth it.

After downing a double shot Double B latte, my goal was a thorough look at the French rooms and the small English collection. Passing by the classical Baroque painter Nicolas Poussin, I heard something outside the window. More band practice, or as I like to think of it, the Hermitage halftime show.

A lovely Raeburn portrait captivated me, as did this partially completed portrait of a general.

I love these incomplete works, the intention of the artist still visible. — I love these incomplete works, the intention of the artist and his bold beginning still visible.

I lingered in a large room lined with glass cabinets filled with mostly silver and gilded silver objects; variations on goblets, boxes, serving trays, dishes and vanity sets. Took way too many photos to post, but here are two standouts:

A dragon devouring a horse on top of a tankard.

dragon eats horse — I guess St George lost this one.

The Big Chicken, Hermitage-style.

Turn right at the Big Chicken to get to the throne room.

Stumbled into the throne room. I think the Russians invented the phrase, “Winter is coming.”

Game of Thrones, Russian Division. Winter is coming.

Very imposing. I especially liked the ceiling.

I was fascinated by a small exhibition about restoration of embellishment and embroidery.

Made me itch to pick a needle and embroider. — Made me itch to pick a needle.

Then I stumbled across the white and gold baroque chapel. The lines from Keats’ poem, On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer, popped into my head. “Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,/And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;”

There were interesting liturgical bits and pieces, all of Romanov dynasty historical significance.

detail of an icon

During my lunch break in the cafe, I drew cherubs on the backs of postcards to send home. Afterwards I went in search of the postoffice annex inside the Hermitage. Up I went to the top floors, down they sent me to the basement, I just couldn’t locate it. Tomorrow I’ll give it another go.

Walked to Fruktovaya Lavka after for another stellar meal (sous vide turkey breast, with parsnip puree and cherry sauce, buttered mixed Cruciferae vegetables, and raspberry tart on crème anglaise).

Trying to figure out where to go to buy authentic and interesting Russian goods not made in China and not nesting dolls. Not making great progress, but ever hopeful.

Thursday, April 21, Menshikov + Nabokov + Museum of Religion

April 27, 2016 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Ubered over the river to The Menshikov Palace, home of a proud and ambitious man. His marble bust says it all.

It’s nothing like as graceful as the Yusupov Palace, but then Menshikov rose from humble beginnings to prominence, then plummeted to a bad end after the death of his great friend and patron, Peter the Great. They were besties during their salad days in Amsterdam, which might explains his devotion to Dutch tile. It was both the fashion and outrageously expensive. Menshikov paved the walls and ceilings with it. Kind of a nouveau riche move.

Here’s his sister’s room.

Along with a lathe and wood-working tools used by Peter the Great, There was this wooden strong box. The turn of one key open 26 bolts at once.

Couldn’t find the restaurant I was looking for, so famished I decided to take a chance on this place. It turned out to be a good call. Other patrons were Italian-suited business men and a few Chanel-suited tourist couples. I got the ‘would madam like to see the menu? ‘ move from the Maître d’, who squinted at my Chucks and tee and jeans and wanted to avoid mutual embarrassment by giving me a look at the prices. He did not realize the favorable exchange rate made this a cheap meal. The venue was nice. Light-filled, spacious, calm, excellent service, and not bad food (fish cakes, mashed potatoes, grilled veg).

Name of this place is Restaurant. Which makes it really hard to looks up.

There were birds squawking and singing at random moments. I thought it was some strange attempt at ambience by audio until I saw the pair of cockatiels caged by the bar.

Ubered back across the river to the Nabokov House Museum. Opening the door was like entering a shrine. I’d read his engaging and lucid memoir, Speak, Memory years ago, and been listening to the audio book for the past week. I could see his home in my mind’s eye; especially the library, where his father practiced fencing in the morning. Ah, me. Today Nabokov’s boyhood home is nearly a ruin; a few dilapidated rooms with intact ceiling paneling, a wreck of cordoned-off stairs. The exhibits are meager; photos pinned to the walls, fragments of letters, random memorabilia.The flotsam and jetsam of his exile from the Russia of his youth. A few glass cases of butterflies alone had undiminished beauty.

A Russian language video documentary played in another room to rows and rows of empty seats and three other visitors. I guess they haven’t forgiven him. A prophet without honor in his own land.

Not ready to quit, I checked my homemade Google Map and saw the Museum of the History of Religion was only a few blocks away. Let me recommend the audio guide. It was very informative and spoken by a dry English voice. Like listening to a benevolent and cynical old man recount fairy tales. All that’s missing is the intro, ‘Once upon a time.’ Or, ‘Then the princess pricked her finger and fell asleep for a hundred years.’

Unlike the Nabokov House, there was plenty to see and hear, from shaman rites and Greek temples to over-the-top orthodox vestments, purloined, I assume, when the Bolsheviks ransacked the churches and outlawed the opium of the masses**

There were hard to define oddities, like this priest in a box

Anti-Roman Catholic propaganda.

And this, which was purported to be the actual nails from the actual cross. I doubt these are the real thing.

Unexpectedly, presenting all this as childish superstition had the opposite cumulative effect. Instead of engendering doubt, it fanned the fame of possibility. If all humanity through all the ages has worshipped, has sought and acknowledged a creator, why wouldn’t there be something greater than ourselves? Change the names, the dogma, the rituals, it all points the same direction. The idea man is the very pinnacle, the apotheosis of existence sounds absurd to me. Is hubris the word I’m looking for here? Arrogance, maybe.***

Biggest surprise was the exhibit of The Pure Land of a Buddha of infinite light, Amitabha.

The room was dim and blue. A shining path of starlight above and below led to a set of carved wooden sculptures representing the sphere of bliss. There was the humming drone of chanting. The Mahayana Buddha waits, enthroned. If I’d sat down, I don’t know when I would have gotten up. It was like sinking into a warm lotus pond, in the summer. Bliss.

My last stop was a line of bright gold and red prayer wheels. There was a notice inviting the dear visitor to spin them, so spin I did. I went up and back and up again, saying the names of those I love in my mind, urged on by a smiling Indian babushka. It’s another trip highlight.

** “It is the opium of the people. The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness. To call on them to give up their illusions about their condition is to call on them to give up a condition that requires illusions. The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo.” Karl Marx

*** ‘Hubris: insolent contempt that may be defined verbally as extreme or foolish pride.’

Friday, April 22; Tsarskoye Selo, Peterhof

April 28, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

My cordial and capable guide, Nina Kazarina, arrived at my hotel with driver, Igor. He was a no-nonsense man, ex-Army. If I ever need a bodyguard, I’m calling him. We spent the drive out to Pushkin getting acquainted and I relaxed, putting myself in her capable hands.

Nina Kazarina, as nice as she is pretty.

Catherine’s palace, originally a two story structure, was transformed into eye-popping opulence by her daughter the Empress Elizabeth. She embraced rococo and ordered her architect to out-flaunt Versailles. According to Nina, Elizabeth never wore a dress twice and spent money with both fists. Frankly, it was too fancy for my taste, more Vegas than Versailles, an aggressively gilded showplace. The Yusupov Palace was far more to my liking. The other downside was the hordes. Touring the smaller rooms, each a jewel box of exquisite objects, meant shuffling along, tightly packed into an endless, snaking line. I can’t imagine the fresh hell of high season. However, in the immortal words of Rick Steves, ‘if things are not to your liking, change your liking,’ I looked for what I could enjoy. Nina’s company and commentary were on the top of that list.

At the entry, you slip brown paper booties over your shoes. Everytime I looked down I thought of hobbit feet. Snicker.

Clean but slippery. Watch you step, Baggins. — Clean but slippery. Watch your step, Baggins.

It’s an excellent solution, when the floors are as fabulous as the ceilings, and the ceilings are intricate examples of every embellishment humans can devise. Security looks in bags and takes water bottles, but you can mark your and retrieve it when you leave. We did.

Nina pointed out a pair of small cupids at the top of the grand staircase. More bronze than gold, they were original, purposefully left unrestored. That’s when I learned this palace was virtually razed by bombing.

Nina explained that the highly visible palace was targeted by German artillery. All this aggressive gilding I see is restoration work, almost brand new. I was fascinated by a series of photos in the downstairs hallway of Russian artisans recreating former glory from a bombed out shell. The idea that people were taught these skills and employed to do this heartened me.

The fabled Amber room, lined with panels made out of blobs of resin on gold leaf, is a tourist mecca. It’s more famous for being famous than it is beautiful. Nor is it, in fact, the actual Amber room. That was looted by the Nazis in 1941, and this facsimile was installed in 2003.

The cheerfulness of Nina, and her steady commentary of interesting facts, was a huge plus, truly entertaining. She deftly led us through the labyrinth to the exit. When we emerged, I was enchanted by the magic of softly falling snow.

We walked over to the nearby Museum of Festive Carriages, which I longed to see. It looked closed, but no, we were just the only people there besides the attendants (many a pensioner supplements her income with these jobs). Between growing up on horseback, and all those regency novels I am fond of reading, I was in heaven. There were the royal ceremonial coaches, like a line of Rolls Royces.

This could poof back into a pumpkin at midnight. — This might poof back into a pumpkin at midnight.

Just right for a fair weather family outing.

I loved the cupids, carved wheels, fringe galore.

Loved this jaunty gold and green model, with an umbrella for shade.

Nina looking adorable — Nina, looking like the Mary Poppins of guides.

It’s not all swanky bullion fringe. This carriage was a damaged by the first bomb attack on Alexander II, but remained intact. it was the second bomb that killed the Tsar.

The shattered remains of the carriage Alexander II was in the day he was assassinated — The carriage of Alexander II, bombed by a revolutionary, was a gift from Napoleon.

I looked my fill. I’d go back in a hoofbeat. We ate in Sochi, a nearby restaurant, going for convenience over cuisine. A cafeteria with multiple stations and black and white film footage of Louis Armstrong projected on the wall. You could see how the vast crowds of summer could be accommodated.

The drive to Peterhof took us from snowflakes to lashing rain and then to blue skies, all in thirty minutes. It was sunny and freezing at Peterhof. “The wind is blowing from Finland,” Igor explained. Locals are exceedingly proud of the engineering of the fountains (it all runs by gravity; they sneer at Versailles’ pumped water) and the many many many gold statues (I’m hearing Terry Prachett’s dwarves singing the Gold song). Peter would arrive using that waterway. How the young boat builder must have reveled in that.

Blasted by arctic winds, I hastened inside and pitied the costumed actors who stroll the terrace.

Three of my favorite stories Nina told me: Peter put pieces of fake fruit in with the real thing. He liked to punk his dinner guests and it was a measure of just how drunk they were. Catherine II blew up a frigate for the benefit of a painter. She’d commissioned a dozen paintings of a navel battle, and he’d never seen a ship explode. The Picture Hall room, wallpapered in 368 portraits of young women, are mostly done from a single model, her head at different angles, wearing different accessories.

Instead of going back to the hotel, I asked them to drop me near my favorite restaurant, and they kindly agreed. I learned that I’ve seen enough grand palaces, that I am more interested in downstairs than upstairs. Wishing I’d come when Mon Plaisir was open.

Dinner was delicious, especially the chef’s take on beef stroganoff and the baked apple.

It's on a bed of shaved chocolate. Mm'mm. — It’s on a bed of shaved chocolate. Mm’mm.

Thanks again, Nina. If you want a stress-free day trip, with a cordial and informed guide, she’s an excellent choice. Here’s a link to her company, Tzarina tours. www.tzarinatours.com