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.