Fruktovaya Lavka

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.’

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.

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

Thursday, April 29, Peter & Paul Fortress

May 3, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Turned away from the Stieglitz Academy of Art and Design, I blundered into an orthodox mass and grabbed enough blue sky to walk around the Peter and Paul Fortress and walk back across the bridge. Learned skipping breakfast is a very bad idea and Uber, while not infallible, is close to it.

I stayed up late reading*, then updated my blog. I was running late, so I figured I’d grab a coffee on the street.** Ebullient at the prospect of seeing the Stieglitz, the cradle of St Petersburg artists, I skipped to the entrance. Young people were coming in and out like bees to a hive. A woman carrying a large portfolio came out, a skinny person of ambiguous sexuality and asymmetrical, semi-shaved green hair went in. I was in the right place. A ticket office box is next to a turnstile, but I can’t quite see how to get to it. The clerk tapped a finger on the inside of the glass.***

Sad for me. I came up with Plan B on the fly. The sky was blue, I’d walk to some nearby cafe for a coffee and pastry, then Uber to the Peter and Paul Fortress and poke around the church and cosmonaut exhibits. I set out to the nearby Transfiguration Cathedral that I’d marked on my Google Map, where I intended to light a few candles and say my prayers. I didn’t see a cafe until I was on the square of the church where I saw a swanky specialty coffee and tea place. Eureka. It’s past noon and I am feeling the lack of caffeine and calories. There was one customer there and the clerk, measuring out tea leaf by leaf. No, I am not exaggerating. They consulted on the next tea selection. Five minutes went by without any acknowledgement. I left, now seriously cranky.

Walked into the church and smack into a mass in full swing. Incense in clouds, priests and altar boys dressed elaborate purple and gold Lenten vestments. The floor was packed with SRO worshipers, who bowed and crossed themselves in repetitious patterns. They were not in synch with each other, but moved to their own beat. There was a slender, dark man in my peripheral vision. He wore a goatee, dressed entirely in black,and gave off a D’Artagnan vibe, complete with sardonic expression. It was as hot as a bakery oven with a heady odor of sanctity – incense, beeswax, cologne and humanity. An altar boy appeared and handed D’Artagnan a wrapped package of what looked like a very large biscuit. I lit candles for my beloveds and slipped out.

Uber took me to the entry to the Fortress, where I walked around listening to an audio guide of the island’s history on my iPhone, and hoping to find a cafe. No luck, just little kiosks of souvenirs and carts selling boiled corn on the cob. This sculpture of Peter the Great drew a crowd of youths who stood in line to rub his skeletal fingers. I felt like he looks. Not happy.

I visited the engineers’ house and the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, which holds the marble sepulchers of the Romanovs.

In one of the hallways was a family tree with images of each member of the dynasty. That would be handy to have in your pocket when you’re trying to keep all the Alexanders straight.
The golden angel that tops the church’s spire has fallen repeatedly (bringing to mind another fallen angel). I liked the story of the third angel that broke and dangled precariously overhead. A roofer repaired it, using his ropes to climb up to it without delay, sparing the city the cost of scaffolding.

I circled the island twice, but failed to find the cosmonauts exhibit, and was too depleted by hunger to care. I came across this manhole cover and thought of my dearly missed spouse, Robert Kempf.

Traffic was not moving on the road leading to the bridge back across the river, so I decided to walk across and then call Uber. A creative and nimble driver was able to outwit traffic and delivered me to the door of my favorite restaurant Fruktovaya Lavka at 4:30. Minutes later, good bread and olive oil was in front of me. By the time I finished my main course, followed by a raspberry custard tartlet, all was well with my world.

Meatballs with cranberries on zucchini puree. Yum. — Meatballs with cranberries on fresh green pea puree.

Back to The Alexander House to pack for my move to the Astoria Hotel. I’ve enjoyed my stay in this friendly little hotel on the outskirts. They have treated me very well, and provided that welcoming, safe home base I had hoped for. My room was bright, spacious and comfortable and the cost not only reasonable, but thrifty. The staff are friendly, cheerful, and flexible. They are the heart and soul of the establishment and make all the difference. I’d stay here again, and heartily recommend it to people who want what I wanted – a quiet haven at the end of the day, removed from the bustle of the center.

* Mistake #1 (tired) ** Mistake #2 (hungry) ***Mistake #3 (angry). My trifecta of errors. Never skip breakfast. Low blood sugar sucks the joy out of living.

Friday, April 30, Moving Day

May 3, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Raining borscht and vodka, a drenching steady rain. I showered, had breakfast and finished packing. I updated my blog until noon, when It was time to call Uber Black and move to the swanky Astoria.*

Upon arrival one man ran out, opened my door, handed me an umbrella, and carried my bags, Another man opened the hotel’s entry door, and a third man took the umbrella from me, and guided me to the desk where a very polite young women checked me in. Another woman walked me to my room and two guys showed up to hand off my luggage. But wait! There’s more. A maid arrived with a bathmat so I don’t fall in the shower and then two men (do they travel in pairs? Are they a matched set?) presented a plate of fresh fruit, another plate with four chocolates (oh, the chocolates! So good my eyes rolled up in my head), and a handwritten note from customer relations, thanking me for coming. Full court press.

The lobby smells like rich men. Expensive cologne air freshener, essence of Tom Ford maybe? White marble, sparkling chandeliers, fresh flowers. Polished is the word that comes to mind

Double glazed double windows in my room, so there is not a whisper of sound from the brisk traffic four floors below. Imposing St Isaak’s, bedecked with angels and saints, topped with golden domes and spires, is my view. It looks close enough to reach out and touch.

After I unpacked, ready to race over to the Hermitage, it took 20 minutes of searching to admit I had lost my key card. I was heading downstairs to beg them for another, when I saw the damn thing. It had its own lit up slot in the wall by the door. Who knew? I realized I needed a license to drive this room.

By the time I walked into the Hermitage at 5pm, I could wander freely. Spent quality time in the peacock room and saw Catherine’s hanging garden mirrored by her indoor forest of chandeliers and fluted white columns
Sat and sketched Danae, trying to get the line of her creamy thigh just right.

Dawdled in the armor room. The plumes don’t seem right on men and horses tricked out to wreak carnage. Even jousting was serious business.

War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. — War, Famine, Pestilence, Death and me.

Left on a quest to find Peter’s Winter Palace, which exhibits a few rooms modeled on his original residence.

I made a wrong turn and was thrown out by an irate ticket checker for the Hermitage theater. The ladies at the coat check were kind though and, thanks to GoogleTranslate, also helpful. We passed my iPhone back and forth and they explained to me I was one building and a canal bridge away. Finally found the right door and immediately felt at home in his intimate and practical rooms.

Peter’s workshop. Love the files hanging on the back wall. He and Robert would have gotten along like peas and carrots.

One of the eerier exhibits was a wax effigy of Peter, created from a mold made of his head, hands, and legs three days after his death. The torso was whittled out of wood and jointed, the better to pose it. I see the resemblance to that statue with distorted proportions in the Peter and Paul Fortress, but it was described as ‘startlingly life life’, and it looks stiff and artificial to me. I’m getting very fond of this Tsar, except for his tendency to torture and execute people in creative ways, and having his first wife kidnapped and incarcerated in a nunnery against her will. Listening to Peter the Great: His Life and World, by R.K. Massie, has made the hair on the nape of my neck rise more than once.

Walked from the museum to dinner at Fruk, and trotted back to the hotel afterwards past inventive store windows, expensive hotels and charming eateries, my iPod blasting Eric Paslay’s High Class.

Back up to my room to find the bed linen turned down and chocolates on my pillow.** There’s a footage of a merrily blazing fire, complete with crackling sound, on the flatscreen.

*When I started putting this trip together last July, my cosmopolitan nephew urged me to stay at the Astoria. It’s expensive, but I could eke out a short stay using 1. the nonrefundable discount 2. further discount of booking far in advance 3. the plunge of the ruble.
Given the length of my stay I needed something more affordable for the initial three weeks. My TripAdvisor research led me to the Alexander house, where I was very happy. If the Astoria booking wasn’t non-refundable I would have tried to stay on there, but now that I am here, and rolling in the soft, warm lap of luxury, it sure is nice. I don’t fit in, but the staff are kind to me. I don’t behave like an entitled bitch, so that probably works in my favor.

**One funny story; coming back to my room that first night, I’m walking down the long corridor, and a man steps out of a room in a white terrycloth bathrobe and looks in my direction. I keep walking his way because my room is in that direction, and he keeps staring. I have to pass by him because, yup, my room is next to his. He does a 180 to keep me in his sights. Different culture or dangerously creepy? Don’t know and don’t care, I just figure out how to use the chain lock on my door with record speed. Later that night I heard a lot of voices and girly laughter and, er, furniture banging, so I think maybe he had me mixed up with someone else, a person he perhaps did not actually know, but was expecting. I am sure I did not look like what he ordered.
I could be totally off base with my speculation (he was expecting his niece! They were playing Heads Up charades!), but I’m not knocking on the door and asking for clarification.

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.

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.