Sister Act in Moscow

The gale force winds and heavy rain the day before were in no way indicative of how bright, dry and sunny it would be the next. As such, it was impossible to resist an invitation for a walk in the pleasant, warm weather. The forecast has predicted a colder winter than usual this year, compelling us Moscow-dwellers to make the most of the few possible outdoor city activities before it actually hits.

Along the Garden Ring, I walked from Sretensky Bulevar metro station, past the monuments to Alexander Griboyedov and Nadezhda Krupskaya, and finally to the church within the convent walls where I was to experience for the first time an all-female small choir sing at the opening of Saturday evening mass. Alexander Griboyedov was a 19^th century playwright and diplomat, whereas Nadezhda Krupskaya was no other than the wife of Vladimir Ilych Lenin, a revolutionary, no surprise there, and a writer. That section of the pedestrian walk was being remodeled, and it seemed to me that Nadezhda was getting a face lift as well, so I couldn’t get close enough.

There seemed to be a great amount of bronze in the area. The third statue I saw within that short walking distance was not of a person, but a goat. It was hanging on the wall over the door outside a Czech beer bar called “kozyol”, meaning billy-goat - looking down, I suppose, at the drinkers. It was an interesting sight right opposite the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin. A short walk further along the Garden Walk brought me to an imposing building on my left. It had the customary thick walls of the monasteries I’d seen all over the city, but differed in color. It was red. The domes within the walls confirmed it would be a church, and further investigation revealed it to be Nativity Monastery. It is said to have been founded in 1380, and is one of Moscow’s oldest monasteries.

I donned a headscarf at the entrance as is customary, and ventured in, surprised to see a uniformed security officer on the premises. I had never encountered one during any of my visits to other religious institutions in Russia. I walked past him to look around and was welcomed by beautifully manicured lawns and well-tended flower gardens. The colorful flowers looked healthy in their beds and invited to be picked, but I resisted the urge. It was quiet. Visitors and church-goers walked silently or spoke undertone. It seemed difficult to believe I was in the heart of a big city with a population of about 12 million.

The comforting silence was broken by the sound of bells chiming in the imposing bell tower under which you had to walk to enter the monastery grounds. It was painted in a pastel yellow. Unlike the gongs signaling the time of day in churches elsewhere, the sound of church bells ringing in Russia is always a pleasant tune. A friend once said she liked to hear them "rocking the bells”. It wasn't unlike the feeling you would get in a gospel church. I waited till the ringing was over before I made my way into the church on the second floor.

My initial intention was just to take a look around, admire the interior architecture and decoration, possibly try to steal a picture, enjoy the atmosphere and leave. The iconostasis was white and gold. I’d been used to seeing a darker shade of wood. Was it because it was a convent? The paintings of all the religious figures were in white and gold frames, the walls were a pale blue covered in frescoes, and for the first time I saw nuns. In an elevated headdress, they were draped in long, black, floating habits. As they hastily gathered, their robes swish-swishing, I realized I had come just in time to witness the beginning of a liturgy; happy to have the experience.

Led by one of the nuns, the small choir, made up of nuns and secular ladies in headscarves and long skirts, sang melodiously. Her hands moved gracefully and sharply in the air as she signaled the pitches and dips and rounded it all up. Full of rhythm though the song was, it was not as daring as the ones Whoopi Goldberg’s character in Sister Act had her fellow sisters bobbing their heads, tapping their feet and eventually dancing to. Nonetheless, I could not help but reminisce about the American comedy set in a convent in New York as the singing filled the church creating an uplifting atmosphere.

After the first hymn was over, the priest came out with his incense burner from behind the iconostasis, a purple and silver-threaded robe over his black cassock, his beard nicely kempt and his hair held in a neat pony tail. A path was opened from him to walk through and all bowed to receive his blessing as he swung the incense burner in each person’s direction – an act of purification, I presumed. I was one of them and followed their example, getting a whiff of the incense. His deed done, he returned to where he had emerged from behind the iconostasis. Invisible, but audible, he called out phrases according to the ritual, and these were responded to by the choir in song, as the small congregation on their feet made the sign of the cross over and over again, bowed and touched the floor. The solemnity of the place and the ritual was very touching. The 70 years of repression and persecution of those who dared believe flashed through my mind and I applauded their faith. After a few minutes partaking in this service, I mouthed a few phrases in thanks and left.

I walked around on the peaceful monastery grounds again. There were three churches altogether. The main one I visited open to the public, and two others shut to the public – possibly undergoing restoration. A long row of doors and window were probably the monks' and nuns' cells. The security guard was carefully watching for any trespassers, stifling my urge to sneak beyond the barriers. I had enjoyed my visit and was happy to have made this discovery on my walk. As I made my way out of the gate, I looked back and made a promise to myself to come back for another visit.

I reached Trubnaya Square continuing my walk along the Garden Ring shortly after leaving the monastery. In fact, from Trubnaya Square with its column commemorating all the Russian soldiers fallen in the line of duty, you could see the imposing red fortress-like building on a promontory, with the majestic domes and golden orthodox crosses. Back at the square, at the base of the column is an engraving of another replica of the Pieta. It seems to me that this Italian sculpture by Michelangelo is the most copied piece of art - I have seen replicas even in India. It also seemed to be a convenient spot for people to advertise their wares as the ground was covered with several colorful ones.

A few meters away was the Moscow modern theater staging “Snow”, and not far from this appeared an interesting discovery - an amphitheater-like structure, with an elevated stage in the open air with three levels of bleachers. I could only assume that amateur plays would be staged there in good weather; there not being any signs anywhere to indicate what it was. I took a seat on the hard, cold, middle level bleachers to get a feel of what it was like, but could not conjure any images. I wouldn’t expect them to be staging Shakespeare. Russian literature has more than enough plays of its own without having to resort to the English bard to liven up the city.

The Garden Ring seemed to have a lot of interesting cultural attractions. Several people wielding cameras, aiming and clicking away drew my attention to look the direction of the object they were all concentrating on. Quite easy to miss is the façade of Number 4 Krapivensky Pereulok on a small side street. An Art Nouveau building sporting brown, white and black bricks and Arabesque arches worth a picture. I could see other churches in the horizon, but had settled for a short walk and chose to move on. Passing a Ukranian restaurant along the way, a host offered free copies of the restaurant publication. The cover I soon realized was graced by a full-size picture and signature of Steven Seagal, as well as short note thanking the restaurant for the best food he’d enjoyed. He certainly looked like he enjoyed his food, and not only at this Ukranian restarant - Korchma.

 The walk was over for that day. Fortunate to live in Moscow, I could leave the rest of the route for another time, so I joined two colleagues at a French coffee shop with the best macaroons ever. I had an assortment of macaroons and some red fruit tea to celebrate a great day.