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.