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.