The parade had ended, enabling the soaked dignitaries, most likely chilled to the bone, to finally disperse. The forlorn lectern on the rolled-out, T-shaped, red carpet with golden borders offered an unusual view. There was no one on the carpet which lay soaked on the ground in the incessant drizzle in front of the grey, Soviet-era, block-shaped building with the scythe and sickle boldly emblazoned on each side, shielding the bear carrying a tied bundle at the end of a stick. The bronze bear must have been added recently as the story behind it pre-dates Soviet times.
Across from the wide square and the modern building, was a replica of a multiple, green-domed white church I had seen in Kolomenskoe Park, the royal retreat in the apple orchard outside Moscow - a reminder of another visit.
The big boys had been recruiting more boys to come and join them play macho games with their big toys. Or so it seemed from the parade of companies or battalions followed by police cars of different sizes and makes, military trucks and tanks and a myriad other big vehicles. We managed to catch a view of the last cadets and officers marching through the square to the dynamic rhythm of a marching band, as a loud speaker blurted out the names of the companies and invited others to join this exclusive brotherhood of municipal, regional and national defense. All through the light drizzle, men, women, families, children sitting on the shoulders of their loved ones stoically and silently watched the parade embodying respect for the demonstration of such power.
Yaroslavl, where we'd gone for the weekend is a leisurely, three-and-a-half hour train ride from Moscow. The scheduled train rolled out with admirable punctuality; so much so that one of my co-travelers who made the mistake of arriving a few seconds after departure time was left behind. We found our seats easily in the last car and slid cozily into their warmth in contrast to the wet weather outside, making for a nice opportunity to catch up on sleep we had been deprived of due to the early departure.
Our initial goal, upon arrival, was to find our sleeping quarters, leave our luggage, have breakfast and then tour of one of Russia's oldest towns, which in 1612 had had the honor of being the capital of the Russian state for about two months. Having celebrated its millennium in 2010, it is slightly older than Moscow, which is just a bit short of 900. Included in the UNESCO World Heritage list since 2005, its historic center boasts numerous, beautifully restored churches accentuating the traditional air so typical of the Golden Ring towns in Russia.
From the train station, we walked along Chekhov Street to a nearby hotel we hoped would serve us a well-needed meal as it was almost noon. Our excitement heightened with every step towards the hotel as we imagined a warm restaurant with a smorgasbord to fill our plates to our hearts content; what with the weather, our hunger and anticipation was immeasurable.
Had anyone managed to capture the disappointment on our faces as we were informed by the security officer that there was no such place for dining at the hotel, not even a coffee shop, we would have made the front page of the Yaroslavl Times. A hotel, in a tourist town of such prominence, without a simple coffee shop, was difficult to digest. Dejected, we plodded away with heavy hearts and empty stomachs in the hope of finding a coffee shop in the vicinity. We didn't. The only attraction in sight was the old cemetery that the hotel rooms looked on to. An imaginary conversation between a visitor and reservations clerk played in my head - "Cemetery view from your room, or...cemetery view?"
We continued our walk along Chekhov street, past the cemetery, a jacuzzi tub sales center, old houses, tram tracks...no coffee shop in sight, nor anything remotely offering sustenance.
The sophisticated hand-held device informed us after 3 kilometers that we had another 3 kilometers to get to our chosen accommodation site to leave our bags. The general consensus after the disappointment, the long walk, and the further exercise that awaited us was to get ourselves to the town center instead, where the likelihood of finding a place to sit, eat and rest before tackling the tour seemed more plausible.
We waited at a stop for a bus headed in that direction and boarded one after about 18 minutes. Held up in traffic close to the town center, we finally found out why - a woman who had been run over was being carried into an ambulance as she lay face-down, fully-clothed on a gurney. My thoughts went out to her. As much as I'd complained about breakfast, or its lack thereof, the walk, and everything else, at least I was on my own two feet. I wished her a speedy recovery as I realized how lucky I was. The scene reminded me to be careful while crossing.
Finally we arrived at our destination to be welcomed by vestiges of the products of the legendary revolution - Soviet Square, October Street... and right in the vicinity, oh joy, a coffee shop promising a spread. We entered the Travelers' Cafe and sank into the soft seats like the weary travelers that we were. Always an interesting experience, the order and service did not disappoint us, with the lengthy service, the wrong order, the cold gazes and the accompanying squabbles. I am now used to it and just take it all with a pinch of salt.
Our first stop as tourists, once well-fed and after walking along a boulevard bearing a name commemorating the Soviet era, past a colorful collection of birdhouses in bright pink, purple, white, blue and emerald green all nailed to a tree, was Volkov Theater in Volkov Square. The pastel yellow building with white columns, typical of the neoclassical architecture found all over Russia, looked newly restored, sporting a fresh coat of paint. Both are named after the founder of Russia's first public theater, Fyodor Grigorievich Volkov.
We walked around, past Blaise Tower and to the pedestrian area with chain stores, a beer den or two, churches and several monuments. My friends, like most Russians I am acquainted with, are not particularly interested in entering churches. This has been conveyed to me in different ways: "I don't have a scarf." "We can't go in wearing pants." Or simply more directly, "there's nothing interesting to see inside." As such, I only admired the churches from the outside.
More churches, more church bells, more golden domes, more pastel yellow buildings and their corresponding white columns, as well as the omnipresent eternal flame with wreaths deposited by thoughtful visitors. Bordered by the Volga and Kotorosl rivers, we walked along the embankment as the weather warmed and dried up in the afternoon. In the midst of all the history and the pleasantness of it all, I felt bewitched by the spell that the beauty of the historic town center seemed to have cast on me. The summer months long over, there were no cruise ships at the harbor as the guide had specified.
There wasn't a single moment during which the gigantic "I heart Yaroslavl" sign did not have someone posing in front of it. Standing in line for a souvenir did not appeal to me so I took a rain check. Good weather being hard to come by, I thought I'd make the most of what we were lucky to get. The one picture I had taken of myself was with my hand on the man-size rock displaying the inscription of the founding of the town with the monument of the Holy Trinity erected in 1995 in the background.
As we returned into town after wearing out the soles of our shoes for a few hours, we heard church bells. It was four o'clock and the faithful were being summoned to mass. We approached the church and stopped to listen to the musical chimes which, to my surprise, were the product of a woman's expertise. It was the first time I'd seen a woman in the belfry instead of the usual long-haired, long-bearded, black-robed, kamilavka-donned priest. We looked up at the woman in a black dress and headscarf, enjoying the music her hands so deftly played, as she looked down at us. And I was sure she could see the "box of chocolates" a prankster had left on the ground trying to lure fools in pursuit of satiating their gluttony, subsequently disappointed as they discovered the trick. The bell concert lasted five minutes exactly - five minutes of musical bliss.
We resumed our walk back to the pedestrian area, where we found a place for a snack as we prepared to accompany our friend who was returning to Moscow that evening. Night setting in early, there was little else to visit at the end of the day so we decided to watch the latest Russian release in the movie theater, about a geography teacher who regularly enjoyed a couple of drinks too many, and then have dinner.
It had been a tiring but rewarding day with lots of interesting sights in great company. And now to find the accommodation we had tried to get to when we first arrived several hours ago.
The next morning we made our way, once again, and for the last time, to the pedestrian area. "Le Gavroche,"
which we later discovered was the in-place in Yaroslavl for a meal, is where we found a booth and settled in ravenously. It was decorated beautifully with semi-open, rich, dark curtains bunched up on the sides, revealing the on-goings on the street, or in this case, the none-goings. Framed pictures of Yaroslavl at different times in history gave the coffee shop a homey feeling. Posters of different beverages vividly indicated the business the place was in. Very few tables were occupied with people generally talking in hushed tones. It seemed the perfect place to spend some time in the morning before heading back to Moscow.
Omelette, pancakes with sour cream, broth, strudel, croissant, fried eggs and ham, tea...we seemed to be celebrating; such was the sumptuous breakfast we regaled ourselves with. It seemed very quiet; quieter than a normal Sunday morning. There didn't seem to be many people walking outside either. We later saw the whole town gathered at the square watching the big boys' parade with their big toys and understood. We had arrived in time to take part in the end of the event, listen to the officer calling upon the brave to join the forces, and for the barricades to be lifted so we could walk through and discover what was left on our list.
We walked past a posh grocery store, which time did not allow us to explore, on our way to the Monastery of the Transfiguration. It is, according to the guide, the best place to start a tour of Yaroslavl. However, we had left that for last - the thick, white-washed walls, arches and brown-roofed towers at each corner, vividly reminiscent of other monastery ensembles all over the country. A sign at the entrance informed visitors of its status of a UNESCO World Heritage site charging different fees for access to different sites within the ensemble. "Masha the Bear" was on display for a few hours in the afternoon for a few rubles. Did she dance? Ride a bike? Skip rope? What tricks, I wondered, did she do enabling her to be on display? But, alas, I didn't have the chance to witness it.
A light, constant drizzle filled the air as we paid a small fee for the privilege of visiting the grounds, but not the finest creations of medieval Russian art housed in the churches. I promised myself I'd do that on another occasion. It is said that nothing of the Kremlin survived when it burnt down in 1658, nevertheless, a collection of beautiful churches and monuments make it worth visiting. I hadn't managed to see the Abbott's Chambers, the Refectory, the Holy Gate and other recommended attractions, making a visit back paramount.
We bade farewell to Yaroslavl the town, and to Yaroslavl the Wise, whom we have the good fortune to see every time we spend 1000 rubles. In the town, he is cast in bronze and was erected in 1993, holding a model building in his left hand.
We made it back in time for the train, which once again left promptly with no announcement whatsoever. Busy playing scrabble, scattergories and reading, the train ride was over in the blink of an eye, as was the weekend.
The big boys had been recruiting more boys to come and join them play macho games with their big toys. Or so it seemed from the parade of companies or battalions followed by police cars of different sizes and makes, military trucks and tanks and a myriad other big vehicles. We managed to catch a view of the last cadets and officers marching through the square to the dynamic rhythm of a marching band, as a loud speaker blurted out the names of the companies and invited others to join this exclusive brotherhood of municipal, regional and national defense. All through the light drizzle, men, women, families, children sitting on the shoulders of their loved ones stoically and silently watched the parade embodying respect for the demonstration of such power.
Yaroslavl, where we'd gone for the weekend is a leisurely, three-and-a-half hour train ride from Moscow. The scheduled train rolled out with admirable punctuality; so much so that one of my co-travelers who made the mistake of arriving a few seconds after departure time was left behind. We found our seats easily in the last car and slid cozily into their warmth in contrast to the wet weather outside, making for a nice opportunity to catch up on sleep we had been deprived of due to the early departure.Our initial goal, upon arrival, was to find our sleeping quarters, leave our luggage, have breakfast and then tour of one of Russia's oldest towns, which in 1612 had had the honor of being the capital of the Russian state for about two months. Having celebrated its millennium in 2010, it is slightly older than Moscow, which is just a bit short of 900. Included in the UNESCO World Heritage list since 2005, its historic center boasts numerous, beautifully restored churches accentuating the traditional air so typical of the Golden Ring towns in Russia.
From the train station, we walked along Chekhov Street to a nearby hotel we hoped would serve us a well-needed meal as it was almost noon. Our excitement heightened with every step towards the hotel as we imagined a warm restaurant with a smorgasbord to fill our plates to our hearts content; what with the weather, our hunger and anticipation was immeasurable.
Had anyone managed to capture the disappointment on our faces as we were informed by the security officer that there was no such place for dining at the hotel, not even a coffee shop, we would have made the front page of the Yaroslavl Times. A hotel, in a tourist town of such prominence, without a simple coffee shop, was difficult to digest. Dejected, we plodded away with heavy hearts and empty stomachs in the hope of finding a coffee shop in the vicinity. We didn't. The only attraction in sight was the old cemetery that the hotel rooms looked on to. An imaginary conversation between a visitor and reservations clerk played in my head - "Cemetery view from your room, or...cemetery view?"We continued our walk along Chekhov street, past the cemetery, a jacuzzi tub sales center, old houses, tram tracks...no coffee shop in sight, nor anything remotely offering sustenance.
The sophisticated hand-held device informed us after 3 kilometers that we had another 3 kilometers to get to our chosen accommodation site to leave our bags. The general consensus after the disappointment, the long walk, and the further exercise that awaited us was to get ourselves to the town center instead, where the likelihood of finding a place to sit, eat and rest before tackling the tour seemed more plausible.
We waited at a stop for a bus headed in that direction and boarded one after about 18 minutes. Held up in traffic close to the town center, we finally found out why - a woman who had been run over was being carried into an ambulance as she lay face-down, fully-clothed on a gurney. My thoughts went out to her. As much as I'd complained about breakfast, or its lack thereof, the walk, and everything else, at least I was on my own two feet. I wished her a speedy recovery as I realized how lucky I was. The scene reminded me to be careful while crossing.
Finally we arrived at our destination to be welcomed by vestiges of the products of the legendary revolution - Soviet Square, October Street... and right in the vicinity, oh joy, a coffee shop promising a spread. We entered the Travelers' Cafe and sank into the soft seats like the weary travelers that we were. Always an interesting experience, the order and service did not disappoint us, with the lengthy service, the wrong order, the cold gazes and the accompanying squabbles. I am now used to it and just take it all with a pinch of salt.
We walked around, past Blaise Tower and to the pedestrian area with chain stores, a beer den or two, churches and several monuments. My friends, like most Russians I am acquainted with, are not particularly interested in entering churches. This has been conveyed to me in different ways: "I don't have a scarf." "We can't go in wearing pants." Or simply more directly, "there's nothing interesting to see inside." As such, I only admired the churches from the outside.
More churches, more church bells, more golden domes, more pastel yellow buildings and their corresponding white columns, as well as the omnipresent eternal flame with wreaths deposited by thoughtful visitors. Bordered by the Volga and Kotorosl rivers, we walked along the embankment as the weather warmed and dried up in the afternoon. In the midst of all the history and the pleasantness of it all, I felt bewitched by the spell that the beauty of the historic town center seemed to have cast on me. The summer months long over, there were no cruise ships at the harbor as the guide had specified.
As we returned into town after wearing out the soles of our shoes for a few hours, we heard church bells. It was four o'clock and the faithful were being summoned to mass. We approached the church and stopped to listen to the musical chimes which, to my surprise, were the product of a woman's expertise. It was the first time I'd seen a woman in the belfry instead of the usual long-haired, long-bearded, black-robed, kamilavka-donned priest. We looked up at the woman in a black dress and headscarf, enjoying the music her hands so deftly played, as she looked down at us. And I was sure she could see the "box of chocolates" a prankster had left on the ground trying to lure fools in pursuit of satiating their gluttony, subsequently disappointed as they discovered the trick. The bell concert lasted five minutes exactly - five minutes of musical bliss.
We resumed our walk back to the pedestrian area, where we found a place for a snack as we prepared to accompany our friend who was returning to Moscow that evening. Night setting in early, there was little else to visit at the end of the day so we decided to watch the latest Russian release in the movie theater, about a geography teacher who regularly enjoyed a couple of drinks too many, and then have dinner.
It had been a tiring but rewarding day with lots of interesting sights in great company. And now to find the accommodation we had tried to get to when we first arrived several hours ago.
The next morning we made our way, once again, and for the last time, to the pedestrian area. "Le Gavroche,"
Omelette, pancakes with sour cream, broth, strudel, croissant, fried eggs and ham, tea...we seemed to be celebrating; such was the sumptuous breakfast we regaled ourselves with. It seemed very quiet; quieter than a normal Sunday morning. There didn't seem to be many people walking outside either. We later saw the whole town gathered at the square watching the big boys' parade with their big toys and understood. We had arrived in time to take part in the end of the event, listen to the officer calling upon the brave to join the forces, and for the barricades to be lifted so we could walk through and discover what was left on our list.
We walked past a posh grocery store, which time did not allow us to explore, on our way to the Monastery of the Transfiguration. It is, according to the guide, the best place to start a tour of Yaroslavl. However, we had left that for last - the thick, white-washed walls, arches and brown-roofed towers at each corner, vividly reminiscent of other monastery ensembles all over the country. A sign at the entrance informed visitors of its status of a UNESCO World Heritage site charging different fees for access to different sites within the ensemble. "Masha the Bear" was on display for a few hours in the afternoon for a few rubles. Did she dance? Ride a bike? Skip rope? What tricks, I wondered, did she do enabling her to be on display? But, alas, I didn't have the chance to witness it.
A light, constant drizzle filled the air as we paid a small fee for the privilege of visiting the grounds, but not the finest creations of medieval Russian art housed in the churches. I promised myself I'd do that on another occasion. It is said that nothing of the Kremlin survived when it burnt down in 1658, nevertheless, a collection of beautiful churches and monuments make it worth visiting. I hadn't managed to see the Abbott's Chambers, the Refectory, the Holy Gate and other recommended attractions, making a visit back paramount.We bade farewell to Yaroslavl the town, and to Yaroslavl the Wise, whom we have the good fortune to see every time we spend 1000 rubles. In the town, he is cast in bronze and was erected in 1993, holding a model building in his left hand.
We made it back in time for the train, which once again left promptly with no announcement whatsoever. Busy playing scrabble, scattergories and reading, the train ride was over in the blink of an eye, as was the weekend.
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