Hermitage

Tuesday, April 12, The Hermitage

April 18, 2016 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

I have a strategy for huge museums.

1. Get there early.

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

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

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

5. Bring my best manners.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remember to look up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow, repeat.

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

St. Petersburg, Wednesday 13

April 19, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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

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

Ended up drawing the pair of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pan seared cod on tagliatelle vegetables. Divine.

Random Observations:

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

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

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

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

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

Hermitage, Thursday April 14

April 20, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermitage, Friday April 15

April 20, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

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

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

Hard Core coffee bean aficionados, hard at work

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

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

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

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

Rembrandt aches.

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

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

His painting is forgiveness made visible.

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

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

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.

Wednesday, April 20, Hermitage

April 26, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

I bee-lined for the post office in the depths of the Hermitage. Found it by being humble enough to stop frequently for guidance from the babushkas. Mailed a clutch of illustrated postcards, then wandered around the subterranean level, to see what I could see. Came across the desiccated corpse of a Siberian man with extensive tattoos. The Hermitage helpfully supplied detailed drawing of the patterns. I took photos to pass along to my daughter Emily; musician, artist and, when the spirit moves her, tattooist.

A few rooms away, above a swatch of preserved skin, was this schematic drawing.

I wonder about the significance of the images and their placement.

I got caught up in imagining the people who used the everyday implements; particularly a room lined with the iron pots. Nothing dainty, these were hefty cauldrons worthy of Turtle Soup, the main course at Kempf family reunions. I promise you that for every pot, there was a vigorously used paddle.

There were cases of arms, armor, and equestrian gear. If warhorses were the engines, these saddles were the luxury chassis, interior and rims.

That afternoon I walked the Italian halls of the New Hermitage, a purpose-built space for the display of large canvases. I loved this still life of an oriental carpet. Someday I’ll take a serious run at one myself.

When I realized the enormous stone vase blocking my view was made of Lapis Lazuli, I nearly swooned.

look at the size of that thing. — That gorgeous blue is even more impressive in person.

It’s the blue of the Dutch skies and Italian Virgins robes. It was one of the most expense colors to buy, and there’s enough here to paint the ceiling with. Later I was told that these gargantuan pieces are veneered, not solid, but I don’t know that for a fact. It’s still a massive chunk of glorious blue.

Note the person standing next to it for scale.

I stayed long enough into the evening hour for the hordes to diminish, and got to spend a few precious minutes alone with The Conestabile Madonna. And that’s why I came. Everything from here on out, is gravy.

Tuesday, April 26, General Staff Building

May 1, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Zipped into the Hermitage at the opening bell, on a mission to mail postcards. I was surprised at how vast and empty it felt, tourists just beginning to trickle in, the babushkas still strolling to their posts. I keep thinking of the Empress looking at her paintings, her only company the mice. Dropped off two dozen postcards, a cash only transaction. Left by way of the main entrance, which I’d never even seen. Here’s the line I have also never been in, thanks to my Friends of the Hermitage card.

I walked across to the General Staff building this morning to see what’s on second and who’s on first. My apologies to Abbott and Costello.

There were marvelous things in the collection of lavish diplomatic gifts presented to the Russian Imperial Court. Saddles were a popular choice.

I came across a small room dedicated to Rodin, with half a dozen pairs of his lovers, embracing.

I liked poking around in the Faberge exhibit too.

Brooding viking considers his cut glass boat.

But what about the contemporary art? Let’s start with the most famous work.

Which one of these paintings cost them a cool 8 million? Wanna guess? It’s in the middle. Black Square, by Kasimir Malevich. I’d say I felt nothing but that’s not strictly true. I was irritated. The time I spent looking at this I will never get back. I’d heard of it, and did some Googling, and the idea in the context of the time etc., blahblahblah, but it fails me as visual art, so that doesn’t fix the problem. I know it is my problem, not Malevich’s. This is where I think visual art jumps the shark. Not art per se, but visual art. It’s like Peter’s wooden fruit, stuck in bowls of the real thing – part joke and part field sobriety test.

Next up, Red Wagon.

This installation is supposed to evoke the dismantling of the Soviet Empire. I thought it was a temporary site for workman to leave equipment, or possibly an exhibition under construction. Several of the building’s bigger rooms are empty. Lots of blind alleys and dead ends and maze-like hallways. But some welcome open spaces too. Anyway, now I know that it’s a bone fide conceptual installation? Don’t care.

This is a temporary exhibition. It’s a big deal.

It’s large. Parts are bristly, parts are smooth. Definitely big. Again, meh.

This is what I’d trade all of these for. It was up on the third floor, in the French rooms. It’s very small, 13.5″ x15″

Watercolorist at the Louvre, by Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret. I couldn’t get enough of it. Zoom in if you can. The subject is a woman in the act of painting, which of course matters to me. It’s shamelessly charming. That frothy pink bonbon of a dress is absurd, but the curves and flounces speak to the carved and gilded frame of the large painting. I love the backs of canvases stacked and leaning against the wall, the landscape painting-within-the-painting, the way the light caresses her. The whole thing is so replete with beauty, it’s practically edible. It’s even more captivating in real life than on this screen, trust me.

It will surprise no one that, although I fit the technical definition of a contemporary artist in that i am alive and I do make art, in the world of contemporary art I fall somewhere between an anathema and an anachronism. It’s important to add that every piece of art was not made just for me. You might love Malevich. Have at it. More for you! No lines, no waiting!

I lit some candles at St. Nicholas on my way to dinner at a joint around the corner from my hotel, Romeo’s. A film crew had set up right outside the door, reminding me of my Romeo. Glad we are not star-crossed lovers, just temporarily separated by a mere 4,982 miles.

Russian apple boss are different. — Russian apple boxes are different.

Dinner was okay. My favorite part was dessert.

I think if you try to use the fork on the plate, they don’t let you drive home.

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.

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 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.