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.