Cabbing it in Moscow

I looked out the window. The snow-covered ground was turning to mud, and slush in patches, as people walked in it. There was no way I could carry a twenty-kilogram suitcase through that. There seemed to be no indication of it relenting either, and even if it did, dragging a suitcase through all that to the metro, and on to the train station, to get on the airport express to Domodedovo, did not seem to be a viable option. Not to mention that it required changing lines along a long corridor, although it would be only two stops.

Moscow is crowded everywhere – above ground and underground. Given my choices, I had to bite the bullet to call a taxi. I shouted out to the one reliable cab driver I know in Moscow, who would surely get me to my destination in one piece, if only he isn't busy. My previous experiences with so-called cabs in Moscow, mostly gypsy, had prevented me from using their services, except in extreme cases. Even when I called a reputable taxi company, I was sent an unrecognizable car with a driver lacking, not only manners, but driving skills as well. My friend Marina, who is having a hard time passing her driving test, has assured me that many drivers in Moscow “buy” their license, without actually having taken the test, let alone attempted to pass it. It explained a lot of things that I saw on the roads, and some of the experiences I'd heard recounted by others.

My last airport transfer to Sheremetevo airport, in the north of Moscow, was not only an unforgettable experience, but also one I would rather not relive. I had used the services of a taxi company to book one for this purpose. Aware of the traffic problems in the city, I set off four and a half hours ahead of boarding time, expecting that, even if it took two hours to get to the airport, which it shouldn't, I would still have a whole hour to check in, and board. If only I had known… but what could I have done anyway?

At the agreed time, an unknown number showed up on my phone screen informing me that the taxi had arrived. However, when I looked around, there was no car which vaguely resembled one. As I waited by my suitcase, looking puzzled, a man in a big, green Taurus beckoned me. I approached and asked if he was the taxi driver. In response, he mentioned my name enquiringly. I may have expressed surprise, but thanked him for coming and made to carry my suitcase into the car. Unable to open the trunk from the inside, he had to come out to open it from the outside. I chose not to react to the scene I was confronted with, as he stepped out of the car - a morbidly obese man, in underwear and flip flops, namely, a singlet and boxers. And I will refrain from commenting on his personal hygiene.

No one could convince me that he was a professional taxi driver, or a professional anything, for that matter. Granted, it was a hot summer day, but which part of that justified walking out of your house in underwear? It would be my first experience as a passenger with a driver in underwear. Would anyone understand my complaint, or acknowledge it, if I chose to file one? In his soft voice, and with a kind smile, he offered to carry my suitcase and placed it in the trunk. He then proceeded to cross the whole city, finding his way around on non-stop chattering GPS, taking four hours to get me to my destination. Four long, unbearable, hot hours, during which not a single word was exchanged between us, until I just about had a coronary, when he decided to stop at a gas station. When I started to protest about missing my flight, he said he needed to get me change, and got out, once again in his under wear, into the store to change the note I’d given him. It wasn't a near death experience, but it was certainly one I would not like to retell.

That summer day, the roads were clear, and it took four hours. Today, it is snowing. The roads are slippery, slushy, and muddy. It is the middle of the day, and getting close to rush hour. I could not afford to take that chance again, so with a prayer, I called Pavel, hoping he could squeeze me in his tight schedule to drive me to the train station. He was punctual, as I’d expected, so we started our less than 10-kilometer drive, which was literally two metro stops from my house, at 14.20, the stipulated time. As we turned the corner to go round the block, because it was impossible to turn left, I calculated that the journey would take about 15 minutes, twenty, tops. After twenty minutes, I was still sitting in the car, chatting leisurely to Pavel. We hadn't even made it to the entrance of that first metro station yet. Moscow, oh Moskva!

The poor man was mortified when I’d expressed my idea of travelling on the metro to him. I had assumed that he was sympathetic because of the obvious difficulty of carrying my suitcase up and down the stairs and escalators, in my frail state of femininity, and subsequently dragging the heavy thing along long corridors, in the midst of hundreds of people walking at various paces, in the attempt to avoid the usual pushing and shoving, or hindering them from walking comfortably, as my luggage would be in their way. To my dismay, he was rather concerned for me because of the color of my skin, and the reaction it may attract from certain people. I laughed and reassured him of my frequent metro trips during which there had never been an incident. It was his turn to be shocked. He had heard many stories about people of different skin color being attacked just for that reason, and was convinced that it was dangerous for someone like me to use that means of transportation. I reassured him, saying that I had heard those stories too, and had not doubted them, but had never been a victim to any of those incidents. Yes, I had heard a slur here or there, once or twice, but had chosen to ignore it.

A few minutes on, we had managed to make some headway, but we were nowhere close to my destination. It was a parking lot, with the vehicles making progress inch by inch. It reminded me of the taxi I rode in once, with a driver who did not hesitate to climb onto the sidewalk to make his way to the head of the line, as he sped on with the car at an angle, trying to impress me with his skills, or lack of them. I adopted the usual Russian attitude of non-reaction to anything, however unusual, uncomfortable, or untoward it may be.

   

Our conversation had moved on from racial problems, to chocolate - different kinds of chocolate, and chocolate factories. He told me about his tour of the Hershey chocolate factory in Pennsylvania while on a visit in the US, drawing a comparison with a tour at the Red October chocolate factory, which used to be in downtown Moscow, near the Kremlin. The factory has since been moved out of the legendary, red brick building, another emblem in Moscow, now converted into a block of apartments, art galleries, coffee shops and a trendy place to hang out. The watch on my wrist read 14.45.

On the tour at the Red October chocolate factory, they were given white coats and chefs’ hats to dress in. They had participated in the manufacturing process, had had a taste of it, and at the end of the tour had received gifts in the form of three kilograms of chocolate. At Hershey, they were shown the process which they watched from a distance, and at the end of the tour, there was a gift shop where they could spend some money to get a taste of the chocolate they had seen made. Someone from the left lane had tried to cut in front of him, forcing him to accelerate and brake abruptly. My heart skipped a beat. We were still moving at a turtle's pace, and the train station was nowhere in sight. 

Our conversation moved on to ice cream. Pavel had worked at an ice cream factory when he was a young man, in 1984. He described the process and the quality of the products in detail. Russia is a well-known land of dairy; proof of which can be witnessed on the shelves in the produkti shops everywhere. Not an ice cream eater, I could not give him my opinion. He mentioned the two kinds of ice cream made at the time. One was the ordinary, no frills, dully-packaged, mass-produced version, lacking in variety for the local consumer. The other, the high quality, exquisite-tasting, rich, creamy product, boasting a variety of flavors in premium packaging, that was exported; one of the recipients of the said exported product being Elisabeth II, the current resident at Buckingham Palace. Shocked, is an understatement to describe my reaction.

I could, however, give him my opinion on chocolate, and dark chocolate at that, which is what I enjoy. I admitted to him that, as sensitive as I am to allergic reactions caused by chocolate manufactured in different companies, I have never suffered any, after eating Russian brands of dark chocolate. We concurred on the high quality of the products, and the purity of their ingredients, absence of preservatives, additives and other artificial substances. Our conversation progressed faster than the drive. Luckily, in the distance, I could finally see a big, white building looming in, with the letters of the name of the train station, usually lit at night. Unfortunately, it was on the left side, and we were driving on the right side. There was no left turn, so we would have to drive past it, all the way to the end of the road, wherever it ended, make a U-turn and then come back down. It was 15.10.

He asked me where I was flying to. Madrid, I answered, and asked him in turn if he would be going anywhere for the New Year celebrations. He said he would be staying in Moscow, so I inquired inquisitively about the Russian tradition of welcoming the New Year. In Spain, the chimes of the last 12 seconds prompt people to eat a grape at the sound of every chime. In addition to making sure that they are wearing red underwear, the real experts are able to fill their mouths, eat and swallow all twelve grapes in time to yell out “Feliz Ano Nuevo” at the turn of the year, hug and kiss as they bestow wishes on one another for a Prosperous New Year.

We were discussing the high prices of certain products at this time of year, as we inched ahead to make the U-turn. I informed him elaborately about the nicely packaged 12 grapes for the special occasion in Spain, as well as the favored dishes of seafood and roast. In Madrid many congregate at La Puerta del Sol for the event. Do people go to Red Square for this event? Apparently, not. Red Square is cordoned off and guarded in a state of heightened security, where people are not allowed in the vicinity with bags, or bottles of drinks of any kind. Where do they meet then? Nowhere. It is too cold. And I can understand that.

Most Russians, he said, stay at home to entertain family and friends, and he proceeded to describe a special Russian tradition to me. Wishes are written on pieces of paper, and burned. The burned pieces of paper are dropped into champagne flutes, into which champagne is served. I asked surprisingly if he was sure it wasn't vodka. He smiled and replied that for celebrations, it is definitely champagne – Russian champagne. After welcoming the New Year, and clinking their glasses containing champagne and burned pieces of paper, the interesting mixture is drained in a few gulps, after which bear hugs are exchanged as a sign of love, and best wishes for the New Year are exchanged. The illuminated green clock on the dashboard read 15.20.

We had made it past the train station, to the end of the road for the U-turn, as we were discussing how expensive Moscow was, and what the possible reasons may be. Clothes and shoes purchased online, with delivery charges, are still 50 per cent cheaper than buying the same clothes in a shop in Moscow. Restaurants of the same category, with bad service, are considerably pricier than in other European cities, or in the US, with more pleasant staff. Almost everything seemed to have a higher price tag in Moscow than in other cities. Why, I asked, was that so? We discussed the C-word in detail, and how all of us, Moscovites, as well as those beyond, were paying the price for this.

We had made it to the train station. Just one last effort. If only the guard would loosen the chain for Pavel to drive through, so I could be dropped off at the entrance, then the relatively long, interestingly short, 30-dollar drive, which Pavel seemed to have earned, considering the amount of work that had gone into the service provided, would all have been worth it. It was. Eventually. As I was dropped off at the entrance as close as possible to the trains. I paid my fare, thanked Pavel, and carried my suitcase, treading carefully in the slush and mud. It was 15.25

In the year that I have lived in Moscow, I have not had the privilege of hailing a cab in the street. I have, however, paid fares to ride in a Range Rover, a Mini Cooper, an Escalade, a Camry, and on other occasions, ordinary, small, yellow cars, bearing the letters “taxi” on them. Yet, there is only one driver whose number I have retained for further services.

A lot of fuss was made recently, when Maria Golub, a prolific, 54-year old Russian actress, met her death tragically; victim of a hit-and-run, as she was riding in a gypsy cab. There was a lot of talk in the media about the need to regulate the taxi system in the city, and in the country as a whole. However, I am sure I am not the only one who has doubts about these new laws, and when or if, they will be implemented. This is just one of Moscow’s many woes, as I take pleasure in discovering all the other good things the city has to offer.

I can at least say that, my last taxi ride in Moscow, in 2012, ended on a very nice note. It was the first time I'd had a meaningful conversation with a taxi driver, during a ride which did not feel as if it would end in the morgue. As I headed to the train waiting on the tracks at Paveletsky Vokzal, on my way to Domodedovo, and eventually to Barajas airport, in anticipation of bidding farewell to 2012 in Madrid with friends, and welcoming the New Year in Bilbao, I looked forward to seeing what 2013 would hold in Moscow when I returned after my vacation.

Of Boots and Wine in Suzdal

We met at 7.30 a.m., at Shyolkovskaya metro station, with easy access to the bus terminal, to embark on the four-hour, 200 km trip to Suzdal. It was bitterly cold, but a trip outside Moscow for some fresh air was urgently warranted. As is usually the case in Russia, very little is straight forward. And when Russians say so, I feel I can freely join in the moaning as well. We managed to get the tickets for the trip, eventually found the right bus and got in line, cold – the famous lines in Russia, even in 2012.

As one of the Golden Ring cities, it has a special appeal to visitors, with its Kremlin, countless churches, monastery, monuments, beautiful scenery, serenity and historic significance. It had all we needed for a change of scenery from Moscow, as well as the opportunity to commune with nature. Spring, in Russia, however, is just a calendar reference. Anyone who errs in taking it for what it should represent, or what it should feel like, would be deeply disappointed. In March, the temperatures still lie below freezing. It was less disheartening though, to know that even the Russians, who should be used to it, looked miserably cold. As such, I felt free to complain as well, even if it changed nothing.

Finally on the bus, two foreign-looking, Caucasian women who had initially approached us in line, had compared their tickets to ours, to ascertain they were getting on the right bus, took the two seats in front of us. The bus filled up, the doors closed and we were soon on our way. I couldn't help but notice how they tore at, and devoured dry bread from a plastic bag. I wondered why they shared nothing except an occasional comment here and there. Who were they? What they were doing in Russia, and why were they eating dry bread? It was obvious why they were going to Suzdal - sightseeing. I needn't have bothered surmising. It all became clearer, as it always does in most travel experiences, even if you don’t ask for it.

The bus stopped at a few places on the way, but the first major town was Vladimir; the ancient capital of Russia, before Moscow was granted this honor. The two women, dry bread, plastic bag, little to no conversation … headed out of the bus when it stopped in Vladimir. I was wrong. They weren't going to Suzdal after all. A few seconds later, here they were, back on the bus to ask us if we weren't getting off. In all amusement and amazement, we answered in the negative. Then they asked if we knew if they could use their ticket to continue to Suzdal. Well, how would we know? The next thing I know, they are back on the bus, and in the seats they had vacated scarcely a few minutes earlier, apparently to continue on to Suzdal.

At our destination, and off the bus, the three of us stopped to consult our map. To my dismay, the two women approached us again, surprised that we didn't know where we were going, and asked what we were planning to do. That is taking a few liberties, I thought.

   

The older one of the two commented in a very disappointed way, “We were following you because we thought you knew what you were doing. We took one look at Vladimir and realized it wasn't worth a visit and since you didn't get off, we assumed Suzdal would be better, as you were headed there”. I disagreed with her opinion about Vladimir, but did not voice mine, as I simultaneously exchanged looks with my companions, Nadia and Nastya, at a loss for words. A gentleman passing by kindly informed us that the town center was only a kilometer away. We did away with the map, and headed there on foot, prompting the other two to fall in stride with us. I consoled myself thinking it was all part of the travel experience.

Nadia, Nastya and I walked together, but I was lagging behind taking pictures. The serene, clean, snow-covered country houses, with their unique window frames, the numerous multi-domed churches, the all-time famous produkti shops, as well as quaint, little souvenir shops were an invitation to click away and not miss a single image. Nadia walked at the same pace as me. The mesmerizing winter scenery of this medieval town captured our attention so much, we had forgotten how cold it was. We passed a shallow depression in the ground where children practiced tobogganing. With no hesitation whatsoever, Nadia ran and jumped in, sat flat on her behind and started sliding. Hands up in the air, screaming like an excited little girl would, I captured several moments of this happy event. She came back up exhausted, warmed up from the exercise and energized as we chatted and walked toward the town center.

Somehow Nastya had ended up in a seemingly, lively conversation with the younger of the two women, whose names I never found out. Suddenly, I heard Nastya say out loud, “Cynthia speaks French.” No sooner had the phrase come out of her mouth, than this young lady somehow appeared by my side, speaking to me in French and leaving Nastya free. Nadia, who did not speak French, left me to join Nastya as they walked ahead, leaving me behind to hold a conversation I was not interested in - talk about passing the buck. After the stranger had gotten over her surprise of meeting someone she could speak to in her native language, she was ecstatic about the opportunity to unload her string of endless, woeful experiences in Russia. She then wanted to know, if we would be staying overnight in Suzdal. No, we were just there for the day. “Would that be enough to see everything?” she inquired. “It is apparently a very big place with lots to see.” I agreed with her.

“Well, we live here so can always come back, and we were just out for the day.” She wasn't happy to hear about our overnight arrangements. This was turning into a very long kilometer, and a very cold one at that. We walked on past beautiful scenery of nature which I pointed out, but she was not interested. A long, cold walk, I reiterated to myself.

She explained, without my asking, that she had always been passionate about the Russian language and had always wanted to learn to speak it. As a result, everyone had told her that the only way to learn was to come to the country, which she had finally done. I was happy for her, that she had managed to accomplish such a challenging feat. However, I was surprised that she wasn't overjoyed that she couldn't find anyone who spoke French or English, forcing her to speak Russian.

She complained incessantly about how hard it was to find people to speak to in Russia, in a language other than Russian, which to me seemed to defeat the purpose of her stay, but, to each his own. I then asked her if she was studying. She said she wasn't, and was just trying to learn on her own by meeting and speaking to people. I was puzzled, as something failed to add up here, but I kept my thoughts to myself. In the time that I'd seen her, all she had wanted to do was to be with people who spoke English or French. At the station in Moscow, I hadn't seen her approach the Russians to ask about the destination of the bus, thus practicing to achieve her goal. I kept my doubts about her progress to myself. She volunteered more information about her life in Russia which I summed up in a few words. She had completed her first month's stay in Moscow out of the three she'd come for, expecting to return home speaking fluent Russian and having visited several places in the country. 

What I had anticipated as a short walk at a brisk pace, had turned into a long, cold walk to civilization, where I longed to get a warm drink. It had become endless, and was getting unbearable. The pretty scenery wasn't doing it for me anymore. My friends had left me behind with a desperate chatter-box and quite frankly, I had no interest whatsoever in getting into my personal theories about language-learning or my personal language-learning experience, which she was interested in, when she found out about my fluency in Russian. It was hard enough to open my mouth to articulate sensible words. She may have said a few more things or complained some more, but I don't remember. It was too cold to be engaged in a conversation which required too much physical and mental effort in temperatures of -16.

She mentioned that the lady she was with was her room-mate who had also come to Russia from England to learn Russian. She was also interested in travelling so they'd decided to do it together, since it was always better to travel in company. I seconded that, although I have not always been fortunate in that domain. I heard nothing about their studies or learning strategies and didn't ask. She had no qualms about abandoning her travel companion, and mentioned she only needed to find the youth hostel where they'd be staying. She also hoped we wouldn't mind having a French girl in our company. Really??????? Just like that!!!!!!! Fortunately, we made it to the main town square, where there was a burgeoning market scene, before I nearly lost it. Her friend suddenly appeared. “Oh” I said, “there are my friends. We need to find a place for coffee and a bathroom. See you later.”

That settled, I rejoined my two friends to walk around the market to see the colorful arts and crafts on display, at the different stalls manned mostly by sturdy women in multi-layered clothing and footwear to keep warm. I wondered how they did it. I was moving around and freezing. My fingers were so numb it didn't feel like I was wearing ski gloves. My lips and cheeks were so frozen I could barely articulate any words, smile or laugh, for that matter. It took some courage to walk around the market and admire what was for sale - scarves, toys, mugs and all sorts of trinkets. What I had taken for Christmas stockings were actually winter boots. They were so nicely decorated, and I had never seen them on anyone's feet in Moscow. I commented on the extension of the sales of Christmas merchandise, since we were in March, or the excessive earliness for Christmas preparations. In Quebec City, I had seen Christmas decorations on sale in August, so I assumed it might be the same custom. My observation sent my friends into hysterics, as they explained that they are boots that people actually wear. I’d learned something new and then saw a few people wearing them in Suzdal. My friends were surprised that I thought they were only decorative.

When it was too cold for comfort we went into a coffee shop called “Salmon and Coffee”. It didn't look very appealing from the outside, but turned out to be beautifully decorated inside with comfortable chairs, and armchairs upholstered in soft pink and white tones. There were intimate nooks with tables set for small groups, and the main floor had individual tables which could be put together or separated as needed. We settled at one of those, and welcomed the warmth and comfort. I had to content myself with some English breakfast tea since they didn't have what I’d been looking forward to trying - honey wine. Trust the Russians to come up with something like this. Grapes can't be grown in this weather, but they seem to have lots of honey, so they make wine from it. We left “Salmon and Coffee” to continue exploring the city. My lips and cheeks had finally thawed, making laughing in the cold a pleasant possibility.

The atmosphere was very lively, with small, open air markets in different areas of the town. I bought a pair of goat’s hair mittens since mine were not doing a good job of keeping my fingers warm. Nastya and Nadia both bought shawls. I also got some miniature shoes for my collection. We visited several churches, the monastery, saw different monuments and enjoyed walking around. The air was certainly fresher. There was no noise, the snow was clean and fresh. It was relaxing despite the cold, and we took tons of pictures.

After a couple of hours walking around, we needed to make a pit stop for coffee. We found a place in a picturesque hotel complex which had been done-up very nicely, but was closed to guests for a celebration of some sort. We found another restaurant, also very nicely done up where I had my honey wine, at last. It tasted like honey, and it was certainly mildly alcoholic. On our way out, we passed another market where a babushka was hawking home-made honey wine. She offered me a glass to try, explained the process and asked me to accompany her to her home if I didn't believe it. I didn't need to. We each bought two bottles as a souvenir from Suzdal, and I had my picture taken with her.

Our day, in a nut shell sums up what Suzdal is about. A laid-back town for relaxation, with pretty tourist attractions - churches and markets. We hailed a taxi the Russian way. You just stand by the roadside. A car stops, just any car. You mention your destination, negotiate a price and off you go. I left that transaction to my Russian friends as they negotiated to get us to the bus terminal, if you could call it that, for a hundred rubles. Our bus was leaving just as we were pulling in. We were lucky it stopped for us, and had to hurry to get on… terrible mistake. Never rush on the streets in Russia in cold weather. The streets are frozen and you never know where you’re stepping, or maybe they do. We were all running, but I fell. I managed to scramble up and walk, under the assumption that I hadn't broken anything. I just hoped the unbearable, intense pain would be from a bruise instead of any other serious injury.

Off we went towards Vladimir, in the company of a very motley crew, on a very Soviet-type and era bus, which on several occasions sounded like it was going to leave us stranded. But we eventually made it there in one piece. Although the price on the tickets for the bus to Moscow from Vladimir stated 68 rubles, we paid 300 rubles each. We chose not to question it, got on the bus and hoped for a safe arrival in Moscow on the frozen roads. The highway, if that is what it is, has only two lanes, and the speed limit is 70. At that speed, you hope the seats on the bus are comfortable. I could never see the speedometer to find out if the driver was adhering to the limit or not.

Anything was possible, since he had blatantly chosen to ignore the “no smoking” signs all over the bus, and smoked happily throughout the trip, when he wasn't on his cell phone, or doing both, or all three. I'd suggested to Nastya to say something to him. Her response was that  the last time she had tried to say something to a driver, he actually threatened to throw her off the bus. That taught me to shut it. Our stop halfway through the trip, which he had specified would be 7 minutes, turned into a twenty-minute wait, with the door open and us freezing inside. We'd actually believed the stop would be seven minutes and hadn't ventured out in case he left without us, given his attitude. I commented on the seven minutes when he returned, which he ignored as he lit another cigarette. It was a slow trip to Moscow. When we finally got to the MKAD, the Moscow Ring Road, the speed limit increased to 100, but with the traffic, it didn't make a difference.

Almost ten months after the fall, I am still in pain, but we had all had a great day. We'd laughed a great deal and managed to relax, and we look forward to going back to see what we'd missed.

The K-342 to Pushkin (Tsarskoye Selo)

Toes numb, cold and puzzled, I spent the long hour or so in the stationary marshrutka, exchanging questioning glances with my co-travelers as we looked at other minivans passing us by with the same K-342 plaque vividly displayed on their front and back windows. Why had the policeman stopped this particular car? He had just stepped out into the road in front of the bus and opened his arms, indicating his command. The driver stopped abruptly, engaged in a very short, undertone exchange with him and subsequently got out to continue the conversation. It didn't end there, but proceeded along the walk to the parked police car a few meters away on a perpendicular road.

As my travel companions and I waited patiently for him to return, my mind wandered to the events of the day. We had arrived in Saint Petersburg early in the morning on the Red Star – a long train with clean, bright red cars, branded Krasnaya Strela in big, yellow letters in Cyrillic print. The delicate, colorful fabric on the windows, and the brightly colored carpet along the aisle were a warm welcome to the compartment where we would spend the night. Dinner, reading materials and fresh linen awaited us for a comfortable journey.

It was my fourth trip to Saint Petersburg, but I felt the same excitement I had the first time I went on the Sapsan, and subsequent times by different means of transport. The Red Star departs from Moscow close to midnight, so it didn't take us long after boarding to climb onto the top bunks; the only two left on the train for that trip, which we were lucky enough to snag. Rocked to sleep, I enjoyed the trip the whole way; alternating sleep and waking moments as I listened to the deep, loud snoring from the rowers of the Russian National Team on the bottom bunks in our compartment.

The platform was piled high with snow as we got off the train and made our way out of the station. The wind gave us no respite and I was happy to be dressed in ski gear; the only way to be shielded from the cold and wind. Despite the harsh weather, it was a pleasant walk along Nevsky Prospect, which had taken on a different air from the previous times I’d been on it. It was lit up with Christmas decorations all the way. In the darkness, the quietness, but awash with the bright lights, I realized that despite the biting cold, it looked festive, and I understood why it was the best time of year to be in Saint Petersburg – there were no crowds. As we walked past the familiar landmarks, I explained, as if I were an expert, what they were and their historic background – Anichkov Bridge, Klodt’s bronze statues of the men and their horses, Gostiniy Dvor, Kazan Cathedral, Savior on Spilled Blood, St Isaac’s Cathedral… I was in my element.

We were on our way to my chosen venue for breakfast; a place I’d fallen in love with ever since I set foot there the first time, and experienced the kind, professional and helpful staff who made my stay the most enjoyable in Russia – Moika 22. A few turns here and there, to see a hidden curiosity or two as we walked on, finally got us to the Moika Canal; ice on the sidewalks, empty cars with their engines running, or people sitting idly in cars with the engine running… our efforts finally paid off as the Kempinski welcomed us with bright lights and colors in honor of the festive Christmas season - but most of all, tropical temperatures. We rid ourselves of several layers of clothing and settled in to enjoy a hearty breakfast.

Our kind waiter, Nikita, recommended sirnki - a typical Russian degustation, flour and cream-based which I could not have. My friend devoured her serving with gusto, and promised to order the same thing the next time we were there. My omelet was served on a plate oozing charm, warmth and care, filling my stomach with the same qualities. Mission accomplished, going back out onto the street proved slightly difficult, given the cozy nature of our environment during the early morning meal. However, we braved it, after tipping and thanking the staff profusely. We got back in gear and headed out into temperatures far lower than what my deep freezer at home displays, to continue our adventure.

Once outside, back in tour guide mode, I explained to my friend that the Pushkin Apartment Museum, where he had lived and died, and which I had visited on a previous occasion, was just a few doors down from us. Our first stop was the State Hermitage Museum. I wanted to get another picture of the ever, upright flapping flag and was not disappointed. We walked around the square and took pictures while I related my previous experience and impressions of the magnificent works of art it housed. My praise for the palace, and its interior decorations continued as we headed for Nevsky Prospect again to get on the metro. From there onward, I was in unfamiliar territory, as Tsarskoye Selo, also known as Pushkin, where we were headed, was a new place for me to discover. 

I soon found out that the turnstiles in the metro in Saint Petersburg worked with tokens, as opposed to the magnetic metro card as in Moscow. Moreover, the fare was lower. Seven stops after we got on the train, which seemed to move at a slower pace than the formula-one-like trains in Moscow, compelling the passengers to hold on for dear life every time the doors slam shut, we were finally in Moskovskaya station. Long corridors and stairs led us out into the open and onto the snow and ice-covered Moskovskaya Square, to be hailed by Lenin. In his long coat ubiquitous coat, bald head shining in the weak winter sun, right arm extended and raised, he stood erect, exuding power in front of the official building with the sickle and scythe still on display. I asked for directions to transportation to Pushkin, and was invited to get on the K-342. The frozen sidewalks required careful treading, but certainly not for the young Russian woman in stiletto heels who hurried to catch a bus, as if in flip flops, not once looking down to see where she trod. My heart skips a beat every time I see them.

The driver came back to the car and I sighed with relief. I will be able to feel my toes again before they fall off, and would finally be on our way back to Saint Petersburg for dinner. He fumbled through the gloves compartment, found some papers, jumped out again, and headed to the police car, coat and hood wrapped tightly around him. My excitement was short- lived, and I wondered how much longer we would wait in the car, where the heating had been turned off and my breath, together with that of the other three passengers, all women, steamed up the windows. There had been no such trouble on the way in. We had just followed the clear directions, saw a line of marshrutkas, looked for the K-342 which was about to take off and hopped on. 30 rubles each got us to Pushkin after about a half hour’s ride. We passed Alexander Palace and alighted at Catherine’s Palace, which was our destination for the day. Easy. The return journey, however, had turned out to be more of an ordeal than we’d expected.

Catherine’s Palace, named after Catherine I, Peter the Great’s second wife, is said to be the world’s longest palace, standing at 300m (984ft), and is the town’s central attraction. As we walked through the garden, the golden cupolas of the palace church shone and sparkled as they were hit by the distant sun rays. It was quite a spectacle which had me thinking of those whose job it was to keep the luster on those cupolas daily. But then again, it isn't uncommon to see workers on rooftops ridding the buildings of the burdensome snow. While they're at it, a little polish here and there would do the magic.

Once inside, we got our tickets and again peeled off layers of clothing, which we left in the cloakroom with the very efficient ladies. Walking through the grand, spacious, gilded halls, dining rooms, drawing rooms and chambers of the palace, I was able to visualize again, Russia’s past grandeur as is evident in the different palaces in and around Saint Petersburg – the Winter Palace, Peterhof, Yusupov’s Palace… they all represent the grandiosity of what Russia was before it became the standard dull, grey, rectangular apartment blocks imposed in the Soviet era. The Amber Room, the only one not allowed to be photographed , shrouded in the mystery of the disappearance of its original alter-ego, has been the subject of several novels of fiction is quite a sight to behold.

I dared to feel nostalgic about leaving the city of Pushkin and Catherine’s Palace behind, when the driver returned into the car ruining my reverie. The town was a page from a book of fairy tales – knee-high, soft-powdered, pure, white snow, covered the park in the midst of which a bronze sculpture of the young writer, sitting cross-legged on a bench, kept his memory alive. Gigantic, sharp, transparent spear-like icicles hung from the roofs of different, pastel-colored palaces of yore. The street lights and the immense decorated Christmas trees could not be more inviting. My nostalgia was again short-lived when the driver thumbed through the papers in the visor, and mumbled an inaudible response, as he was leaving again, to one of the passengers who demanded to know what was going on and how much longer it would go on for. Oh, well. All we can do is hope for the best as we wait.

After the tour of the palace rooms, which we couldn't get enough of, one of the guards had been kind enough to show us a place in the basement housing photographs of the history of the restoration of the palace after its destruction; looted and bombed in the war. Significant moments, captured and framed through the various decades of restoration which began in the mid-60s, lined both sides of the walls along the long corridor; visits of dignitaries at different stages, as well as the restorers and the progress of their work till the end. The picture of the palace in 1949 was a distressing sight – even the door frames had been torn off. It stood out bare in the open, just like any charred, brick building in a war zone after a fierce battle, without a single indication of what it had been. As it stands today, with the hard work, support and dedication that has enabled it to be returned to its former glory, although not all the rooms have been restored, I cannot but take my hat off to them. I commend them on a job well done, and welcome the opportunity that tourists like me have been given to bear witness to such grandeur, which in turn enables me to understand the history of Russia a bit better.

Left with the memories of an insightful visit and the desire to return, to walk in the parks when the weather was more conducive to leisurely strolls in lighter clothing, we joined the ladies who had had enough waiting, and decided to finally abandon our marshrutka, unwillingly, to get on another one. A lot of complaints had been voiced: “Other drivers had been stopped and let go.”, “Our driver was targeted because he is Asian, not Russian.”, “It is Saturday, and the police officer is probably devising a plan to make some extra money on the side,”, “I wouldn't like to have to pay the fare again”… Jokes and laughter ensued amidst the anger.  Eventually, the driver returned, we got back on, he started the engine and turned on the heat. “It had been nothing.” he said with a look of resignation. “It took him a while to verify the paperwork”, he added. 

“What about the other Russian drivers who had been stopped and allowed to leave immediately, or for that matter, those who were not stopped at all?” I wondered. I guess it’s the same everywhere in the world – racial profiling is just racial profiling.

If only we could have headed towards St Petersburg there and then…, but alas, the driver had another one up his sleeve. We were offered the opportunity to get a wider view and a better taste of Pushkin as he drove us throughout the town. A few other passengers got on at different stops, and recounted their ordeal with apparently the same police officer. A man in the group that had joined said he had tried to write down the officer’s name to report him, but he had wisely put his hand across his chest to cover his badge. We were driven all the way to the train station at the end of the town, at break-neck speed, as the driver was obviously upset, for lack of a stronger word. He drove recklessly on the icy roads through the snow, but managed to get us safely back to the nearest subway station in the city, which was not Moskovskaya, but further away. We were just happy to be off the bus and on the metro. My friend lamented the inconvenience, as it was her first time in Saint Petersburg, and she would have liked to be back earlier in the city for a walk to get a better feel for it. It would have to be next time.

Dinner at the Corinthia on Nevsky was a quiet, private affair with a bottle of red wine, and no other diners in the restaurant. It was low season, very low season, and the best time to be in Saint Petersburg. Dinner was followed by a drink at the bar in the Corinthia, where it was slightly livelier. Shortly afterwards, we were due to head back to the train. The Red Star, this time, it was not. No curtains, no carpet. The compartment reminded me of the dull, grey, rectangular buildings – the bare minimum. The plus side was that it was just the two of us in the compartment, which made up for the inconvenience. Between waking and sleeping moments, we made it back to Moscow’s Leningradsky Vokzal, to the metro and home.

Pushkin all the way

Small, big, medium-sized, in cities or rural areas, there is a Pushkin monument in every city I have visited in Russia. In Moscow, there's the Pushkin Museum of Art, Pushkin House Museum, Pushkin Square, Pushkin metro station, Pushkin Café… every possible place that can be named after this legendary literary creator, whose life ended senselessly and tragically at a tender age, has been granted this honor.  And let’s not forget the Pushkin Language Institute in Moscow and many other cities in and outside Russia, teaching Russian language, literature and culture to foreigners.

The square is graced with a bronze statue of the Russian bard,  respectably clad in his, at the time, fashionable tailcoat, looking up at the world before him as an admiral would at sea; ever accommodating for all those who have been posing with him in the background from time immemorial. In the summer, brightly-colored flowers illuminate the atmosphere, and tourists' photographs alike. In the winter time, the snow piles up around him. Throughout the weather cycles, inclement or pleasant, he is always present.

The metro station, however, is one of the plainer-looking ones not on the tour list. A shiny bronze bust of yours truly sits on display at one end of the hall. The curly-haired, young, serious-looking poet's portrait is set on a white marble column frequently accompanied by someone posing for a picture. It is a very busy station on the purple line, where it shares space with two other stations; one named after another very well-known Russian writer, Chekhov, and the other after the famous city of Tver, about 100km from Moscow on the way to St Petersburg. Although not on the metro tour, it would be your destination if you were on your way to the square and the neighboring area of trendy restaurants, cafes, and theaters.

 

Pushkin Café is a must-see and must-do in Moscow. Not only for the pleasant, classic atmosphere of dark wood, and tables dressed in burgundy on white, exquisitely ornamented with twinkling glasses and cutlery for several course meals, but for a memorable dining experience fit for the aristocracy. You are ushered in through the front door by the valet to face a long bar with every possible kind of drink bottle in view, as waiters in loose-fitting white shirts tucked into black pants welcome you to this fine-dining eatery. Several waiters were sporting Pushkin’s sideburns as he is shown in his ubiquitous portraits. I was convinced after seeing a few of them that they were either wearing wigs styled in short, curly hair as Pushkin’s to give the restaurant a real Pushkin air, or it may be a prerequisite for employment in the restaurant. However, a few others with slightly different hair texture and style erased the idea from my mind.

I do have to say that our waiter was one of the friendliest I have ever had in Moscow. Pushkin-like short, curly hair, sideburns and very witty with our orders, he smiled throughout our short stay. He was able to provide clear explanations of what each meal I requested contained. Very surprisingly, he was completely supportive in making sure I did not ingest food containing ingredients I am allergic to. His awareness was pleasantly unexpected, which made it easy to talk to him. 

Homemade berry juice, a typical drink consumed by most with all meals, originally only in Russia, known as “mors” is how I chose to start my meal. It was rich and tasted nothing like the ones served elsewhere made of different kinds of berries. It tasted so good, I was well into my second glass before the starter arrived. It was a simple green salad of the freshest vegetables with a dab of vinaigrette dressing which tasted heavenly.

I was in awe of the headless, grilled Dorada I’d ordered - my first experience of having fish completely deboned for me. As such, the fished which had been delicately grilled to a perfect point, with a touch of spices and a side of grilled vegetables inevitably melted on my tongue, shortly after each piece had traveled on the shiny fork from the elaborately decorated platter to my mouth. I savored every bite as long as I could before swallowing and was left with a longing for more after the plate was empty, although I was full.

In the meantime, we could not help listening to the aggressive, undertone conversation at the next table. A Japanese couple, possibly a tour guide and her colleague, were in a heated conversation about booking a table for a group of people, ordering a set meal but substituting different things on the menu with items of their choice. The manager they were speaking to was in no way as friendly as our waiter who exuded humor through all his pores. She sat upright in her seat, back straight, hair pulled up tightly into a chignon, her dress covering her calves matronly, shod in plain, black, low, square heel shoes. Her refusal to give in to the lady’s request, and the lady’s refusal to understand the unfeasibility of her order, even if it was for a big group prolonged the inane conversation to a point of exasperation. There seemed to be no agreement in sight for this relentless tug of war which irritated my co-diner to the point where he had to keep the reins on himself not to turn round and chastise them for ruining our divine dining experience.

Other than that, it was a quiet atmosphere, not crowded for lunch and very enjoyable. I shudder to think of what my experience would have been had we not had the waiter we were assigned.

 

Ordering dessert was a playful game which had us laughing out loudly. Everything looked good and would surely taste even better than it looked, I thought. However, I was limited to sorbets which they fortunately had, and coffee or tea. Trying to limit the number of scoops I could have in relation to the variety of flavors available was an ordeal which had the waiter in stitches – “black currant, mango and lemon”, “no, wait a minute, black currant, mango and strawberry”.

“Are you sure?” he asked with a smile

“Yes. No. Hmmm. Ok, black currant mango and … another mango.”

“Is that your final answer?” All three of us howled with laughter as my dilemma seemed to be tearing me apart.

“Yes”, I answered.

“You have one last chance.” he insisted. We laughed some more and I agreed that it was my final answer.

My friend ordered a very elaborate chocolate cake I was jealous I could not have. The taste it left in his mouth, looking at the empty plate, compelled him to order another piece, but of a different kind which looked equally as good, surely tasted even better and made me greener with envy, as I sipped my espresso and savored, spoonful by spoonful the different flavors of sorbet I'd ordered.

With the last spoonful of dessert, our meal had come to an end, but we were reluctant to leave that very pleasant, cozy atmosphere. A trip to the restrooms in the basement revealed an ample area and antique-looking toilets; wooden seats on blue and white flower decorated porcelain commodes with a matching design for the water closet set up high on the wall with a long chain. Back up on the first floor, we chose to venture on to the second floor. 

Dining there is akin to dining in a historic library. If we were in awe of the first floor, there were even fewer words to describe the sumptuousness of the layout of the second floor; tables set among dark wood shelves, laden with leather-bound books of yore. Floor to ceiling glass windows let in some light magnified by the luminosity from a number of intricately adorned chandeliers. A few diners could be seen lingering around the end of their meal, enjoying every moment of it. I would have stayed for dinner, but the fresh salad, exquisite fish, delicious dessert and strong coffee to wash it down, together with the mors and water, had left quite a hole in my wallet, so I had to arrange for dinner on the second floor another time.    

Tretyakov, Volkov, Yusupov...

The temperature is slowly dropping in Moscow and after exploring the city on another cold day, popping into a nice, cosy place like the Balchug Kempinski is as good as it gets. It is not as glittery and gaudy as the Ritz, and doesn't need to be, with the smiling, attentive staff and the soft tones of the classic décor. As I sit here writing, the soothing sound of jazz music created by the bass guitar and the trumpet, flowing into the lobby from the adjacent Café Kranzier, has made my short stay in Moscow totally worthwhile. After the Swisshotel, this is my next favorite place for some quiet time in Moscow.

It has been another weekend of cultural experiences in the city and I'm thrilled at what I have found. On Saturday, I made my way to the Tretyakov Gallery which had been on my to-do list for a while. This time when I came out of the Tretyakovskaya metro station, which also serves Ostrovsky's House Museum, I went in a different direction from the one I normally take to my tango lesson. I passed the Library of the Institute of Sciences housed in yet another Russian, neo-classical architectural style building in a yellow pastel tone, and a square displaying a sculpture of artwork in frames very much in demand photographically.

Instead of going straight into the museum I chose to continue along the pedestrian walk which led to Kadashevskaya Embankment lined with plain, pastel-colored low rises, looking onto the river and the Kremlin, as well as an endless line of huge tour buses parked on the side and a series of trees embellished with padlocks from wedding couples sealing their forever after. It was a cold, gray day, but the walk was pleasant so I retraced my steps after I'd spent some time admiring the Kremlin and its surroundings. Another short detour before I made it to the museum took me on a visit to the Temple of the Resurrection of Christ in Kadashi. Although undergoing reconstruction, and crumbling in places, the church could still be visited. It stood erect in all its past glory with glistening bulbs and crosses on the roof and a sturdy belfry.

I made my way through the entrance and up the stairs into the church. I was surprised to find labeled indoor plants everywhere, which made me think it may have been used as a botanical garden back in communist times, although I could be wrong. Or the priests just love gardening. A nuns' convent on the outskirts of Veliky Novgorod revealed the same practice.  I climbed the stairs to the church where a sign warned me to “switch off my phone and observe the awesome silence”. I paid heed to the sign. The church had been restored on the inside, where the flames of the usual lit candles could be seen fluttering, but this church dating from the latter part of the 17^th century, seemed to have taken a real beating and would need a lot of help to recover its past image.

After paying my respects at the church and taking in the solemnity it exuded, it was finally time to make it to the Tretyakov Gallery. I paid for my ticket, which was once again higher than that of Russian nationals, and an extra 200 rubles for the privilege of taking photographs. My interest and excitement increased as I walked from room to room with a display of works of painters I had not heard of and was glad I had made the effort to experience this jewel in Moscow. As is usually the case, we tend to know more about our own area and culture and need to make an extra effort to find out about what is unfamiliar to us. This discovery of Russian painters I was in the dark about, was a wealth of information and knowledge I needed to digest slowly, and felt that I would need to read up on these artists besides making another visit to the museum – Ugryumov, Shchukin, Borovikovsky, Perov, Kirov, and many more.

Ivanov’s gigantic mural depicting the biblical scene of the bathers by the river to whom the Messiah appeared was a favorite of many visitors who sat on the comfortable benches provided for them to view the painting at ease an at their leisure. Another mural depicting a battle, landscapes of places in Italy, like Capri and Sorrento, seemed to be favored tremendously by some of the artists, as were portraits, realistic paintings, sculptures… it was endless and I couldn't get enough of it. Nevertheless, after two hours, I felt I needed a break to assimilate all I'd seen. Moreover, as the day progressed, the museum filled up with more visitors which usually does not allow for an enjoyable viewing, so I thought it would be better if I left.

This time, I would have taken Makovsky’s “Declaration of Love” with me for my foyer – the young couple indoors on a summer day. She looks shy as she is sitting with her head bowed, and he is standing with his side to her, cap under his left armpit… one can easily guess what they’re talking about with no chaperone in sight. The brightness in the picture inspires love and hope for the new couple as lush vegetation can be seen through the window behind them.  I couldn't be greedy. I had to leave something for the other visitors to choose from.  It had certainly been a great experience and one I'd definitely like to repeat. As I collected my coat to leave I realized how long the line at the ticket offices had become and thought to make my next visit an early morning one.

On my agenda for the next day was a visit to the Volkov-Yusupov Palace on Kharitonevsky Street. One piece of reading had led to another and eventually onto information about this palace that not even my Russian colleagues knew about. It could only be visited on an organized tour on Sunday at 11 and I made sure I was there for that event. Krasniye Vorota (Red Gates) metro station, which is the closest to the palace, is one of the stops on the metro tour organized by the Ministry of Architecture in Moscow, although it is not particularly spectacular. In comparison to the other stations I have visited, this one is dark, has no ornaments except the dark, blood-red paint color used for the walls. I don’t remember the guide saying much about the station, except that it was on the red line, among the first stations to be opened and was close to Bulgakov’s residence – the famously known Russian writer of “Master and Margarita”.

I made my way out of the metro station, leaving behind one of Stalin’s Seven Sisters, the former Leningradsky Hotel, which is now the Hilton Leningradsky, and headed to my destination. It was a short walk along the busy Sadovaya Chornogryazkaya Street for a few minutes, after which I turned right into a side-street with abundant vegetation and buildings of palatial architecture. I joined the group on the tour through the different rooms which paled in comparison to the well-known Yusupov Palace in St Petersburg. From the guide’s explanations, none of the residents whose portraits could be seen in different rooms ever spent much time there. They seemed to be mostly in St Petersburg, and I can understand why.

The place is now more likely to be used as an events center. The rooms downstairs were empty except for wallpaper-like decorations of water lilies on the ceiling, gilded door frames and more decorations of gold and red on the walls. The history of the building was narrated as we walked through the rooms. Numerous names were mentioned, among them Alexander Volkov, Ivan the Terrible and Yusupov, not Felix known for the murder of Rasputin, but one of his ancestors who was the last to own it before the revolution.

The hunting scenes painted in one of the rooms downstairs, and the location of the palace in the woods as it would have been at the time suggests it was on hunting grounds, thus the palace was used in hunting season by guests and hosts. Two halls upstairs were set up in dining room fashion; long rectangular table with chairs and big plasma screens in picture frames keeping in tone with the décor of the period. Such apparels could only be indicative of business meetings with presentations. The interior has been done up nicely, however, the beating it had taken from several decades of disrepair is still visible on the exterior.

The visit over, I came to a nice place to celebrate the satisfaction of another cultural experience in Moscow, and the Balchug Kempinski Hotel has been just right for that – warm shelter from the cold outside, calm soothing atmosphere to enjoy nice drinks and listen to music. Gluhwein seems to taste different everywhere I've had it so far, and following the same pattern, this was no different. It was beautifully presented in a glass mug with a slice of fresh orange on the rim held by the rind. The mango sorbet with a twig of mint in a deep, cut-glass ice cream bowl tasted heavenly, and had I not had to watch how my clothes fit, would have had more than one scoop. For the first time in Moscow, I was not told, “no, we don’t have soy milk”. I could see the waiter was not sure, but accepted my order and I saw him make his way behind me and return to the bar with soy milk for my soy latte, which was served in a beautiful, funnel-shaped, glass, accompanied by a spoon with a very long handle to reach its depths.

And finally, the Banana Bee – blended orange juice, banana and honey - was the icing on the cake. All of this placed on a dark wood coffee table, standing on a plush red carpet with beige and burgundy flower motifs, where my feet also rest comfortably. Similarly, the silver sugar bowl with lumps of brown and white sugar, the tongs clasped on the side, sits beside a small bowl with miniature envelopes bearing the hotel logo containing artificial sweetener. So does a porcelain ashtray with silver edges and an embossed italic B.

I enjoy the pleasant setting and treats leisurely, in a soft armchair of mellow gold tones, ensconced in an open area held by shiny, rectangular marble pillars. The occasional, light clinking of china and silverware can be heard faraway at the bar as the guests are entertained by jazz filling our ears and nourishing our souls from next door in Kranzier Café.

Arbat and beyond

As I walked around the massive construction site that surrounded Afimall City, I couldn't help but wonder who would be occupying the Federation Towers and the other massive towers in the vicinity. My walk from Arbat Street had taken me along Smolenskaya Square, Krasnopresnenskaya Embankment, and different sites to the place now known as the modern part of the city in the heart of Moscow. I would actually have described it as a stone’s throw from the heart of Moscow, leaving behind the dull, grey, rectangular, chicken coop-like dwellings, but city planners and namers think differently, and the call the shots.

It was supposed to be a 5.4 km walk according to google maps, but it felt shorter. I came out of Arbatskaya metro station and stood facing the House of Shells reminiscent of the building with the same name in Salamanca, Spain. It is strikingly Hispanic, and houses some such organization or consulate. I stood and admired it on the cold, grey afternoon, pulled my scarf on tighter and started my walk.

Leaving the movie theater on my left, I took the underpass and emerged on the conveniently pedestrian Arbat street where I saw the first of a series of tourists posing for pictures to capture this very significant moment on this mythical, store-lined street; phones, clothes, shoes, paintings, souvenirs, accessories… all available at exorbitant Moscow prices. Sandwich men and women beckon people aggressively, or passively, to the various restaurants and coffee shops for different palates which also grace the streets. My favorite happens to be Hard Rock Café where I chose to have my meal. In typical Russian style, it presents a bland, not exactly appealing façade, but is elaborately ornate on the inside.

I was surprised to see a few caricaturists braving the cold, but there were no happy smiling faces sitting comfortably for portraits as they usually did in the summer. The easels occupied their usual spots, and did were the chairs, all decked in plastic guarded from the frequent unexpected showers, looking a bit forlorn. A very friendly, short, elderly lady, in a colorful, multi-layered, voluminous dress was entertaining passers-by with a melodious folk tune from her balalaika. I stopped to listen for a bit and she smiled kindly at me. I smiled back, put a few notes in the tin at her feet and took out my camera. She nodded, which I took for permission to photograph her. I did and thanked her with a nod as well, and was back on my way. 

I walked past different statues adorning the street, and another musician, whose guitar, contrary to the old lady’s balalaika, emitted a more contemporary, fast-moving, rock tune. He had CDs on sale for those who had enjoyed his performance, which from the sizable audience bobbing their heads, tapping their feet and smiling, I was sure would leave with some of his wares. I took the opportunity to enjoy the not so, usually crowded street, partly due to the weather, the time of day and partly to the time of year.

After successfully declining invitations to savor different cuisines and managing to escape the claws beckoning me to the museum of torture, or the museum of erotic art, I was relieved to find myself in an establishment of five floors of guitars, posters, and music memorabilia all colorfully displayed on dark wood walls. The service was not particularly as unpleasant as I’d experienced in other places in Moscow, although one got the impression after an order had been placed, that they had gone to the farm to slaughter the cow for beef and pick the vegetables to be roasted for the simple meal I'd ordered.

Aside from the business-mongers, Arbat Street is also the home of the Pushkin-House Museum. It is conveniently placed at the end of the street, a few steps away from Smolenskaya metro station and can’t be missed with the statue of a young Pushkin and his adorable wife opposite the robin’s egg blue, two-storey building, adorned with white window and door frames. It guards some memorabilia from the time of his stay in the apartment he had rented and lived in with Natalia Goncharova, his young, beloved wife, during the early years of their marriage. The same one in defense of whose honor he tragically lost his life in St Petersburg after they had moved there. Actually, only two pieces of furniture brought over from the landlady’s country house are authentic period pieces from Pushkin’s time. All the same, it is an interesting tour to learn about Russia’s literary sweetheart, even without the headphones which I declined in favor of my personal perception of the place. 

The museum is made up of several rooms in different colors. From the cloakroom, there is a convenient underpass which leads you to the museum where you are first greeted by a portrait of Alexander Pushkin in a small, square gold frame. Straight ahead is Natalia’s is in a bigger oval-shaped one gracing the wall over a dining table and chairs. The back of these are supported by pairs of gold swans facing opposite directions, upholstered in a beautiful, delicate silk fabric, which I seriously doubt that Pushkin could have afforded at the time. In the company of the portraits of the host and hostess at the time, the room featured portraits of the literati as well; journalists and artists of the time, among them Sheremetyev, after whom one of the international airports in Moscow is named, in addition to bound literary works by Shakespeare and Field. This first room in pastel blue, which may have been the drawing room, projects the view of the cultural atmosphere of Moscow at the time.

The blue room, the red room, the grey, room, the green room, the pink room, all adjoined to one another through double doors and big windows on the side looking on to Arbat Street. It must have been a privilege to live there. The red room guarded copies of the five books of Pushkin’s published in Moscow in 1824, 1826 and 1827, among them “Eugene Onegin”, an opera version of which is frequently staged at the Bolshoi Theater, and “Gypies”. It also featured copies of “Galatea”, “The Moscow Telegraph” and ‘Telescope’, newspapers of that era which most likely disappeared at the time of the revolution. From the window of the large, green room with a very ornate secretaire, which may have been Pushkin’s study, is the view of the statue of the lovely couple – Alexander and Natalia, a favorite background for photographs favored by Muscovites and tourists alike. Seldom is there a moment when the couple are unaccompanied by a smiling, live being. Upstairs where the museum exhibits continue, the rooms are open-spaced and are more than likely to be used now for special events.

My walk took me past Lotte Hotel and the whole Lotte business complex which I ignored and made my way to the embankment. The Radisson Hotel stood majestically on the water with a series of cruise boats docked around. One had just left with a trail of turbulence in the usually calm flowing water – probably the lunch cruise. The shiny glass windows for the guests to admire the views of Moscow as they filled their stomachs with the delicacies provided on board, also made it easy for pedestrians to see the passengers seated, with craned necks in the direction opposite the hotel admiring the architecture of the buildings along Smolenskaya Embankment. The background of this soviet-era, architectural mammoth, another of Stalin's Seven Sisters, which is now the Radisson Hotel, offers the image of a more modern, shinier version of similarly gigantic towers which make up Afimall City; a complex of shops, residential apartments and offices. It just seems to me that the majority of the people in Russia are more likely to afford the previously described kind of dwelling, but… as it was once said, if you build it, they will come, so I hope most Russians can leave behind the chicken coops where a toilet is counted by the realtor as a room, and flock to this new part of the city.

On my walk along the embankment, I passed the British Embassy with an interesting and very creative defense wall; every other tile along the wall featured a quote from Russian and English writers. Could it be to provide waiters in line with something to read and mull over and distract them from their impatience? Whatever the reasoning behind it, I think it is very creative and instructional. Step by step, along the river, I came across the occasional couple of tourists, all bundled up, holding on to each other. There weren't many; in total I counted three couples and a single man.

When I finally got to a more populated area, the object of my excursion after a long, solitary stroll, I circumvented the north entrance of the exhibition center, round Afimall City, to the south entrance, past the Crowne Plaza Hotel where I’d been a few times to meet my flight attendant friend when her airline brought her to Moscow, and continued up 1905 Goda (Year) Street. The side street called Three Hills lived up to its name as I made my winding ascent along it, past a gutted building with the facade intact, with a display of commemorating motifs of this significant event in Russian history.

I take my hat off to them for realizing the importance of preserving history, however ugly it may have been. Sometimes memories of atrocities may help to prevent a reoccurrence. According to sources, the events of 1905, among them Bloody Sunday when tsarist guards opened fire indiscriminately on protesters who dared to cross the gates of the Winter Palace in St Petersburg, had been preceded by general unrest of workers. Numerous strikes had been the norm as a result of demands from liberal and intellectual agitators for an end to Tsarist absolutism and poor working conditions. 

A street, a building and a metro station flanked by gigantic statues in an enclosed square depicting workers and their tools, bear the name of this year which bore witness to all these unpleasant, but significantly symbolic events. As I walked along 1905 Goda street, along Three Hills Street and to the metro station on the purple line to make my way home, I couldn’t help but think of the Russian nation – all it had been through, all the lives that had been sacrificed for a better, greater cause, and where things stood now. Nowadays, almost everyone has an iphone, and you can hardly see a Volga or Lada because everyone prefers to drive a car from somewhere else. In the time that I have been here, I have not seen a single home appliance with a Russian name. My Russian colleagues, who don’t share my passion for Russia, or all things Russian, would rather I never made any reference to anything Soviet-related.

The Red Vineyard in Moscow

The faculty room was abuzz with the names of different places in the four corners of the wind. The long-awaited mid-term break had finally arrived, and most were looking forward to hightailing it out of Moscow. The names of various destinations and means of travel were spewed out in succession; cities and towns in the UK, off to London … connecting from Dublin, driving from Dublin airport, flying first class to Paris, Durban, South Africa, a resort in Turkey, Dubai, were among them. There were fervent discussions about one another’s activities and how great it was going to be not to be in Moscow, where people don’t speak English like in other big cities in Europe, and it was currently just too cold and grey. It would be nice to get some sun and eat some nice food elsewhere. None of these views about Moscow were untrue, but...

“No, I’m staying in Moscow. I still have a lot to explore here.” I replied, when asked if I was going somewhere.

“Well, enjoy Moscow then.”

“I certainly will. See you next week”.

For once, I was looking forward to a lie-in and leisurely strolls in Moscow; weather permitting, and that was an important condition. On Saturday I enjoyed my lie-in with the intention of starting my expeditions the next day.

Not unsurprisingly, Moscow was blanketed with a white sheet of snow on Sunday. I woke up to witness the first snowfall in Moscow on October 28^th – big, fast descending flakes for hours; long enough to pile up for deep, clear footprints all over the city. Had it continued snowing throughout the day, it would have been better. Unfortunately, as day broke and the temperature rose, it turned to rain. For hours, it rained non-stop. Most of the snow turned to slush and fast-flowing streams and puddles I had to jump over on my way to the Pushkin Museum - my chosen destination.

I made it safely to the metro which I rode to Krapotkinskaya. Outside, on my right stood the majestic white and gold-domed Christ the Savior Church where Pussy Riot had staged their infamous riot, the result of the worldwide, media-covered, on-going trial in Moscow. I was in the Museum Quarter where a series of palace-looking buildings housed the most prominent museums in Moscow – Roerich, Pushkin… and a few others. I successfully navigated my way across the street, over a pile of snow and fast running streams, narrowly escaping a heavy splash from a huge, speeding four-wheel drive to the museum. The 45-second journey took on the dangers of an expedition in the jungle.

At the museum, I went through the metal detector sans bag and umbrella. Cleared of any subversive acts, I proceeded to the cloakroom to unburden myself from the coat and wet umbrella to enjoy a tour of the three floors housing canvases and sculptures of contemporary art authored by some of the most famous hands and brushstrokes in the history of the art world.

Although the price of the ticket was not an exorbitant amount, I was not happy to be charged exactly double what Russian citizens would pay. It wasn't the ticket seller's decision, so why would I address it? And even if I'd wanted to, I doubt that it would have been possible. She had the phone receiver glued to her ear during the whole transaction, engaged in an apparently important, interesting conversation with her interlocutor on the other side of the line. I duly paid my 400 rubles and walked up to the first floor.

What a pleasant surprise to be welcomed by all these familiar artists' works – Goya, Corot, Constable, Fortuny, Ingres, Courbet, and to discover a few I didn't know, Virgile Narcisse Diaz de la Pena or Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. Interspersed among the beautifully framed canvases, were the museum wardens sleeping peacefully in their comfortable, sometimes, uncomfortable, chairs. This is a repeated scene in most Russian museums - grey-haired, sullen-looking, elderly women employed as wardens, openly taking naps on the job without a care in the world. I wondered if the CCTV cameras actually worked as people photographed paintings, and warden dosed away; both usually, utterly forbidden elsewhere.

The opportunity to take in all those works, colors, scenes, portraits was a wonderful treat. And it didn't end there. The second floor offered an even greater variety with Degas's well-known ballerinas among many others, as well as more sleeping babushkas. The third floor housed the Matisses, Chagalls, Legers, Rousseaus, Picassos, Miros, Kandinskys. My plate was overflowing, but I kept adding more spoonfuls of art to it. I couldn't get enough. I also discovered Boris Taslitsky and Utrillo – another wonderful treat. It was just sublime!

I found the Pushkin Museum to be a manageable, bite-size museum where I was able to spend about three hours of a very leisurely morning. Although there were other visitors, it was very comfortable to move around and stand in front of a painting for as long as I wanted, alone, or sit on the comfortable benches provided in some of the rooms to contemplate the scenes depicted in the paintings and get lost in them.

The abundance of paintings from different eras of French painters, Renoirs, Monets, Pissaros, Cezannes, as well as a few paintings from Picasso's blue period, all transported me to the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, filled with paintings of contemporary art, where it is unfortunately almost always crowded. Similarly the Louvre and the Hermitage, both venues of impossibly long queues, elbowing, pushing and shoving, where a strong athletic background and a fat wallet seem to be the entry requirements. Eventually, you get in after paying a hefty price for an entrance ticket, but you find you are exhausted and hungry after standing for three hours, or more, in inclement weather. You need rest, sustenance and refreshment, so you spend a small fortune in the museum cafeteria recovering and refuelling before you embark on the viewing tour which you cannot enjoy as a result of all of the above. Not to mention the merchandising; gift shops selling books, fridge magnets, calendars, posters, note pads, mouse pads, kitchen towels and every imaginable object with the print of a well-known work of art on it.

The thought of the absence of those hurdles created an atmosphere of enjoyable intimacy at the Pushkin museum; a pleasant contrast to previously exhausting experiences in over-crowded museums which I have decided not to endure anymore. Despite the intense revelry of walking around admiring the masterpieces, at the end of the tour I felt I had room for more. 

I could easily have done another tour, but I chose instead, to just take two of my favorite paintings home with me. I could look at them every day as they brightened and livened the bare white walls of my apartment, in contrast with the grey skies I can see, and will be looking at for the next, possibly, six months. I chose Van Gogh's “The Red Vineyard” and one of the several themes of Matisse's “The Painter’s Studio”.

The Red Vineyard, as the title suggests is predominantly red in the foreground. Several harvesters, both men and women, can be seen hunched over attending to the grapes. The women are dressed in long skirts, men in pants, a rudimentary farm look about them, and one distinct figure standing among the workers, holding an umbrella - the overseer, more than likely. The luxury of an umbrella while the others labor away under the hot sun! A vividly scorching sun, which occupies the far right corner of the canvas in a bright yellow, projecting strong, yellow rays reflected on the river which occupies the bottom right of the canvas. A lucky fellow is fortunate to be wading in it, possibly freshening up after several hours of work.

A straight row of mature, leafy trees with seemingly manicured, triangular big boughs and big, circular trunks act as a demarcation territory between the vineyard and the main road occupying the left side of the canvas. A tractor with a lonely driver missing the fun in the vineyard stands alone in the middle ground, far from the vines – his only companion is the worker currently unloading a basket of harvested grapes into the buggy.

A hut, possibly the workers living quarters can be seen not too far from the vineyards, whereas far beyond the vineyard, the tractor, and the hut, on the right, we can see a series of concrete buildings which could be the church, and vineyard owner’s chateau.

The Painter’s Studio, a huge wall-size painting showing exactly what the title professes is also a very colorful scene; a room with a predominantly pink floor, a carpet, a yellow floor mat, walls painted in mauve and a high window which opens onto a garden with leafy trees, currently closed.

An easel, several rudimentary stools and coffee tables with ornamental objects have been placed at different angles. The main object which draws the audience into the picture, however, seems to be a divider draped with a bright blue blanket with yellow motifs. It is unbelievably suggestive. What happens behind the divider? Is the blanket always on the divider, or is it removed at times to be draped over something else? A body, perhaps?  Several vases, which may contain drinking water, or meant for cleaning have been strategically placed around the room as well. The bright colors and the cosiness depicted in the room made it difficult to leave it behind.

Both paintings are currently hanging on the walls of my apartment. The Matisse is in on the left wall as I walk into my bedroom. It is keeping my bed and bedside tables company, and the Van Gogh, much smaller, is on the living room wall, just above my desk where I can see it now as I write. Virtually.

Sensual Shopping

Colorful, hand-painted matryoshkas of various sizes and prices, raccoon and fox fur hats, fine goats hair scarves and garments, Soviet-era maps, music boxes, precious stones, watches, antiques, icons, Faberge eggs, books, photographs, wooden toys, dead animals' heads; some beautiful, some not so beautiful, all enclosed in the walls of Ismailovsky Market. It lived up to its reputation as a Russian souvenir shopper’s paradise, as my two companions filled their bags with gifts for their families back home.

It wasn't as crowded as it usually is in the summer with the hordes of tour groups around Moscow – that season is over for the next few months, and colder, despite the mid-October afternoon clear skies. The merchandise, shops and sales people had not changed much, although this time I came across two African salesmen I hadn't seen on my previous visits. One of them from Congo at a shop selling products made of malachite, was an extremely gregarious character who addressed me as his “sister”, and did his best to get us a generous discount for a set of Matryoshkas from his neighbor’s stall. We had a good laugh as he playfully engaged with the woman in an argument about giving away the merchanidise. “Are you husband and wife?” I ask. He said they weren't, but added that the woman was in love with him, which gave place to more glee as he playfully teased, hugged and kissed her. We thanked them both for their help and moved on.

It is a short walk from Partizanskaya metro station, included on the tour of metro stations organized by the Museum of Architecture in Moscow.  The station deserves more than a perfunctory glance to admire the rectangular columns and the two gigantic statues on the platform commemorating a male and female Soviet hero and heroine. Another monument to party militants and workers stands high atop a pedestal in the vestibule - people with their work tools, weapons and ammunition, heavily protected in thick winter coats beautifully molded in solid bronze. Outside, the street leading to the market always seems busy with people on their way there, to the adjacent shopping mall or hotels in the area, or to the Kremlin for a wedding ceremony.

We paid the ten-ruble entrance fee at the gate and walked in. Our first stop was at a stand with several knick-knacks, among them a few metal tea boxes. Rusty, dented and unable to close properly, they certainly were antiques. The salesman eagerly informed us that the oldest one dated from 1840, as the date on the box testified, and it looked like it was from that era. It cost five thousand rubles – more than a hundred dollars. A slightly newer one was said to date from 1920. We showed little interest in that one and were not informed of the price. I hadn't shown any interest in any of the boxes, my friends chose not to spend that kind of money, so we thanked the man for his kindness and walked on past more and more matryoshkas of various shapes, sizes, glitter, colors and appearances.

We gravitated to a stand of very nicely decorated compact mirrors which had captured our interest. Affordable, they seemed to be the perfect gifts from Moscow for female friends. We spent a few minutes there looking at different ones and bought a few. We were drawn to another shop that sold Christmas decorations. They were worth having as they differed from the usual ornaments I had seen outside of Russia. Beyond the market walls from that stall, you could see the colorful turrets of the Ismailovo Kremlin Walls where a few wedding couples were headed to immortalize this special day on a digital screen or film.

We eventually found one of my companions who had gone off on her own busily chatting to a fur hat salesman and trying on different ones as she posed for pictures in them.  We heard her loud laugh a few meters away. It was certainly an enjoyable moment which she described as the most sensual experience she had had since she came to Moscow. She described the young man's detailed attention in placing the hat on her head and gently adjusting it before giving her a mirror to look at herself. He seemed an expert at it. She turned this way and that, threw her head back, laughed flirtatiously with the young man of Asian features she was busy entertaining, but not making a purchase. She tried on a few more hats, fox, raccoon, another fox one of a different color. I am convinced it was more to experience the salesman's sensual touch than to find one that fit to buy. A few hats, laughs and photographs later, we thanked the man, who unfortunately had not managed to make a sale but must have had a good time being entertained by a tourist, and left promising to come back another time.

We made another stop before we headed to the smoky barbecue stand for lunch. An elderly man was at a stand selling wooden toys – bears on a see-saw, bears on bicycles, bears building furniture and the cutest tray of pecking hens with a handle to shake the hens into action. It looked adorable; an alternative to a rattle with a gentler sound. I helped the salesman and my friends to breach the language barrier needed to conduct business successfully. The satisfaction derived from the business transaction earned me a gift for my services as a translator. Not only was I proud that my linguistic skills had been acknowledged, but glad as well that they had been honored.

Just as we were about to leave, another customer who had engaged my companions in conversation at the toy stand, and whom I had taken to be Russian asked for my help with the salesman. He wanted to buy the tray of pecking hens for his nephew, he said. He then asked for several ones in different colors. Did he say nephew or nephews? I wondered. We found out to our surprise that he was Italian and christened him Luigi or Giovanni. He did not offer his name and we did not insist on finding out. The rest of the evening was spent making jokes about Giovanni or Luigi. I had not had Shannon’s sensual shopping experience, but I have my gift to keep forever as a reminder of this eventful day – a miniature blue and white matryoska with blue eyes, big, bushy eyelashes and a friendly smile. The first part of the shopping done with overwhelming experiences, it was time for some rest and a meal.

The cooks manning the barbecue grills were eager for us to get some food and offered us a variety of choices. To make sure we would stay and eat, they assured us that the meat and fish were fresh and offered us pieces to taste. It seemed a pleasant enough place with pleasant enough people so we chose to stay. The chicken, fish and lamb kebabs we were served, washed down with warm wine was delicious. We greatly enjoyed it all and profusely thanked the two kind babushkas who came to clear the table for us. All done, we complied and dutifully paid the tourist fees we were charged although we live in Moscow. We had a chance to go through our purchases as we waited for our meal, admired them, commented on them and thought about the recipients as well as what their reaction to the gifts would be.

Our tummies filled, and feeling warmer than when we first arrived, we took another lazy tour around the market, and although we could see the vodka museum in the distance, we decided to leave that for another time. It had been a late start to the day and we had to prepare for work the next. We hadn't had time to go to the top floor to see the antique icons either. With that in mind, we scheduled another visit to the market to go to the places we had missed.

More Celebrations - Teacher Appreciation Day

No sooner had we reveled in the joy of the festivities commemorating 'back to school', than we had the opportunity to do so again. This time we were to be honored as teachers in Russia on October 5th. Friends, colleagues and acquaintances in different parts of Russia posted Happy Teachers' Day messages on social networking sites, with or without pictures or smiley faces. All had a reason to bring in goodies to combat the munchies when they could finally take a breather from their heavy schedules – it would be the time to share a joke or two about what Masha, Dasha or Sasha said; or what Misha or Grisha had done; or what Denis didn't do. Every class seems to have one or two of these names so their ears must be ringing all the time.

I was in an exuberant mood as I braced the strong winds on my half-hour walk to work; more because it was Friday and another hard week had come to an end. I was anticipating the busy weekend ahead of me during which I would be able to take care of personal errands and attend a cultural activity or two. As I walked on, I looked at the poor trees gradually shedding their green-turned-yellow leaves, shedding their protective shield and beauty, soon to become stark trunks and sticks covered in icicles. However, that was yet to come, so I was enjoying the crisp morning weather all muffled up. Children going to other schools in the vicinity were laden with different sizes and colors of bouquets and gift boxes, obviously for their beloved teachers. My earlier mood piqued even higher to see such appreciation from caring students. Were they caring, or were they atoning for all the grief they'd given the teacher just this first month of school, and paving the way for all that there was to come?

At the gate, I was welcomed by a 'Happy Teachers' Day' from the security guard, sans smile of course, but I was still thankful for the acknowledgement, and showed him my gratitude as I wished him the same. I hadn't expected anything else until I walked into the basement where the faculty room is located, or at least as it is known by name, to be received by a sumptuous spread in the work area. Maria, the kind, lively, friendly retired worker now turned cleaner at our school, welcomed me with a warm smile as she wished me a Happy Teachers' Day. I can’t generalize that people here are unfriendly – there are all sorts. She had come in earlier than usual to clean up and set the table before the teachers arrived. I thanked her profusely for her hard work and her kindness, then we exchanged a few niceties and a few laughs about mundane issues.

The table, which under normal circumstances is never big enough for more than six teachers to sit around at a time to do any work, was laden with all sorts of treats squeezed next to one another - all sugar and flour-based. Usually an early bird, I was the second to arrive that morning. Perfunctory greetings exchanged between the first arrival and me, he went on to make his morning coffee, ready to help himself to a giant portion of cake, or cookies, or pastries, or all three to keep the spare tire growing. Knowing I could not partake in this feast, I took a picture as a reminder of this important occasion in Russia which I don’t remember experiencing anywhere else. That done, I headed to the third floor where my lessons usually take place.

At the summit, I yelled my wishes across the hallway to my colleague and friend Vera Nikolaevna who volleyed them back at me. We had our usual discussions about the day, what lay ahead of us and back to our rooms to get on with work. Our students started arriving, likewise laden with bouquets and gift bags, as I’d seen on my way in. I wasn't particularly looking forward to receiving anything; a day without having to raise my voice or send anyone out of class, or a promise not to do so for the rest of the semester would have been enough for me, and actually the best gift I could receive – but alas! We don’t always get what we want, do we? 

A student I’d sent out of class more than once this week and threatened to go further handed me a small carrier bag. I accepted it graciously and thanked him, however, he refused to give me a hug in exchange. At the end of the day, I opened the bag to find a beige, long-sleeved, polo-neck lycra top - surprising. He saw me everyday and knew my size but I didn't expect that. A later discussion with some other teachers revealed they got the same item from the same student. Was it from their shop and not selling well? It certainly didn't look cheap.

I received more gifts from the same class where the same students have caused me, on numerous occasions, to lose my voice; the same three I could live very happily without. One of them presented me with a gold and red gift bag containing items from a cosmetics store which uses natural products for soaps and creams. They were nicely wrapped in a yellow and black kerchief with a bumble bee tag. It felt soft and mushy, and smelled very nice. It would come in handy for the long, relaxing, nicely-scented bath I was anticipating at the end of the day, thanks to those three. The icing on the cake was receiving a gift from the most behavior-challenged student in that class who actually abused me verbally a few months ago. He had clearly manifested his dislike for me and the language I teach, which he was not interested in learning or speaking, for that matter. I wasn't sure whether to accept his gift which would be a reminder of a very unpleasant, ongoing situation with no prospects of improving, but I did. I thanked him to be gracious, but clearly expressed my surprise, and would have given my left arm to know what was going on in his head.

Every time I descended to the bowels of the school building for copies, books or other business, there was a number of teachers sitting around the table, happily savoring the spread which no longer was. It had been gradually dwindling as teachers in their free time sat to chat, mull and munch.  By the end of the day, the plates were wiped clean, except for the crumbs left around. Maria would stay behind to take care of that, just like she had come in earlier to set it all out. I thanked her for her work, although I did not have a single bite of any of the food. I made sure she felt appreciated too, and gave her one of my several boxes of chocolates which I hope she could enjoy by herself, or with her coworkers when she put the mop in its place to take a breather.

At the end of the day, I sat down to take care of the usual administrative duties a teacher is responsible for, in addition to planning and delivering lessons. My inbox was graced with a group email to all the teachers from the general director in poor English as usual, acknowledging the event and asking the teachers to enjoy the food provided. I could't help but think that the departed head teacher would have had an assembly with the teachers and students, reminded the students about the significance of the day and reminded them that it wasn't just about gifts and food. It is more about cooperation, hard work, respect, trust and creating an atmosphere where all are happy to work and learn. It is too late now to go back and celebrate the European day of Languages which was not acknowledged. I have decided that wherever I am next year, I will take it upon myself to celebrate it, even it is just in my classroom, to raise awareness.

The celebrations continued over the weekend, although in honor of different occasions. I had been invited to break bread with some of my colleagues for Canadian Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, I took a rain check because I had also been invited to Vinzavod. I felt a quiet walk around art galleries, art and antique shops appealed more to me than more merrymaking. At the end of the day I was glad I chose the latter. Tonight, it's the Kremlin Palace for another ballet - the Gala of Russian Ballet Stars.