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.