Moscow-tails

Muskovsky bar befitted the occasion of a farewell drink, and so it is that we headed there on a cold December evening. This time, although temperatures were below zero, it was still in the single digits, making it unnecessary for the welcoming doormen to don their long, heavy red coats - they were  still in red, but short jackets, inviting the guests in with a smile.

I'd been waiting for the grand hotel in Manezh Square to open since I came to Moscow three years ago. The scaffold structure surrounded by metal railings and security guards I used to pass by, was the original, legendary Moskva Hotel built in the 1930s, I had read. It had been demolished and replaced with what is now the luxury Four Seasons.

My first visit was a few days after it finally opened. With a considerable amount of time to kill on my way to the theater, it seemed the perfect place to seek shelter from the double-digit, subzero temperature, windy day. As I was ushered to my seat in the Silk Lounge, I admired the modern décor of shiny blacks and whites, marble floors, plush seats and carpets, and the gentleness of the staff. They all spoke in soft tones, offered welcoming smiles, ever-ready to accommodate the guest.

Needless to say that the soy latte I ordered was delivered hot as I'd requested, in an elegant porcelain mug together with some snacks. The same order in other similar category hotels has been questioned, frowned upon or suggested be replaced with non-fat milk, as if it were the same. Extremely satisfied, did not begin to describe how I felt. Bearing that experience in mind and yearning to repeat the previous pleasant one, no other place seemed better for a memorable event.

We felt like long-lost family returning home as we were invited to take a seat in the empty Muskovsky bar. As I buried myself in the comfortable couch and piled pillows around me, it really felt like home. First on my list to try was the Moscow Mule; their signature drink - a cocktail with a kvass base, ginger and lime. I had long resisted trying kvass - a beverage made with fermented bread, not knowing how my body would react to it. Torn between reluctance and adventure upon learning about it, I decided to be a sport - at least I could say I tried it.

My surprise was directed more at the medieval-era looking, pock-marked brass cup that the drink was served in. It certainly made it very special. Big chunks of ice kept it chilled and the gingery-tangy taste was not at all unpleasant. I asked our friendly waiter, who came by to find out how we were enjoying our drinks, if what I had read about the origin of the ice used for cocktails in Muskovsky bar was true.


"Is this ice really shipped in in form of giant blocks from Baikal Lake?"

"Not the ice, but the water," he explained.

I didn't think blocks of ice would survive the long journey, despite reading about it in a serious international newspaper, unless flown in, and even so... The water, he confirmed, was brought in from Baikal and then frozen in Moscow for the sole purpose of making cocktails. He subsequently went behind the bar and brought out a chunk of ice to show us. How friendly is that? And how duty-bound is that?

My second drink was the same Moscowpolitan my colleague had had, claiming it was a lady's drink. Mine was served in the usual funnel-like cocktail glass with a stem, garnished with blueberries on a toothpick, whereas his was served in a circular one. Though enjoyable, I'm not quite sure I tasted all the ingredients in the drink - citrus infused Beluga vodka, home-made black raspberry jam, cranberry compote, vanilla and lime.

The atmosphere made for good conversation - dim lights, comfortable furniture, varied music at an appropriate volume to talk comfortably, not to mention that we had the place to ourselves. My colleague's second drink had us in stitches as soon as it was placed on the table. We had to reassure our waiter our guffaws had nothing to do with his service, nor anything he had said.

Named the Trans-Siberian, and served in the metal holder for the cylindrical glasses tea is served in on long-distance trains, we were reminded of our adventures across Russia on different trains. I had never thought I'd see drinks served in that kind of recipient anywhere outside a train, let alone, in an upscale hotel bar. The waiter understood and joined in the merriment as we mentioned a few places we'd been to on those trains.

The theme of Muskovsky bar became clearer - typically Russian. We reminisced about places visited in Russia and our experiences there, clinked glasses and hoped for many more, possibly elsewhere.

After the second drink, I was ready to pack it in. Our efficient waiter came by to clear the table and offer another drink, but I was done and wanted no more.

With his usual friendly smile and soft manners, he disappeared and promptly returned with a chilled glass of water in a Bohemian crystal cut glass with a twig of rosemary, and of course lumps, not cubes, of ice. I guess the ice makes all the difference.

Refreshing. Relaxing.

Shortly after, he came back to ask if we'd like another drink. How could I resist his friendly smile, his warm invitation, so rare in Moscow? Why not try something different, and humor him while I was at it?

"What would you recommend?

He ran through a list which didn't really register with me, so I took matters in my own hands.

"What about the Red Square?" "What is that like?"

He rattled off the ingredients. Not being a connoisseur, the only information which registered in my mind was the name - Red Square. We're in Moscow, of course. Why not try a Red Square?

Red, as in the doormen's liveries. Red as in royalty. Red as in the background of the long-buried yellow sickle and scythe, in keeping with the Russian theme at the hotel.

Off he went with our orders. Over the music and our conversation, I could hear the beat of maracas in the background - well the cocktail shaker. I turned my head to see the bartender emulating Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Missing from the picture were the young admirers screaming as they crawled over the counter to get his attention. Maybe if he had the same audience, he would also throw the shaker in the air, catch it behind his back after throwing it between his legs. It may very well be the scene next time I come to the Muskovsky.

The maracas stopped, and shortly afterwards, our drinks appeared in front of us. Rum, amaretto, raspberries, slivers of grilled pineapple and lemon - it tasted divine. No doubt, the pleasure could be read on my face.

"Good choice," said the waiter. I couldn't agree with him more.

Savoring the last drops of that last drink, we were ready to try the delicacies at the Bystro. We walked through the long halls admiring the columns, pilasters and chandeliers omnipresent in any grand building in Moscow - the Russian State Library, the Ministry of Architecture and even the Komsomolskaya metro station are a few that come to mind. This time, for the festive season, the halls were decked, not in boughs of holly, but in red and gold, shiny and matte balls.

The Bystro seemed reserved for us, and with no other guests in sight, the placed seemed overstaffed with all the beautifully laid tables expectant of diners. On two levels, the simple, modern look gave it a homey, accessible air. The emptiness notwithstanding, they were all very friendly and helpful with recommendations.

Eager to try different dishes, I was delighted to find half-portions were available, so I had half the venison salad - my first try, and half the Kamchatka crab salad. Both delicious, but I preferred the latter; the former being very salty. With little time to fully digest the stuffed olives of different kinds I'd previously gorged on at the Muskovsky, the grilled salmon proved too much, and thus the entrée became my lunch the next day. Dessert was out of the question - on hold for another visit.

"Weeeelll. So I see you cooked yesterday," a colleague commented.

"Just a doggy bag," I reassured her.

Ostashkov and Stolobny Island - a taste of monastic life by Lake Seliger

It was past 5pm by the time we checked into our room. We'd been on the go for almost 12 hours. Finally, we could leave our bags and explore the grounds of this peaceful, meditation-inducing haven surrounded by water and vegetation. Clear blue skies on a late spring day. Quiet, peaceful, clean nature - bountiful clear water in the lake. Healthy green grass where daffodils are cozily ensconced. Extensive canopies providing much-needed shade in this serene atmosphere, just occasionally disturbed by the drone of a motor-powered boat in the distance... the perfect getaway from the hustle and bustle of busy, noisy and crowded Moscow.

We had pulled out of the depot at 07:50 taking a little over six hours to cover the approximately 300 km to this idyllic paradise - an uneventful ride except for the bus almost taking off without me at a smoke stop, had it not been for the intervention of one of my co-travelers. Five and ten minutes are very subjective in the mind and timepiece of the driver; depending more on the puffs drawn, or needed to be drawn - more important than the breaks for the call of nature.

The six-hour bus ride to the end of the line got us to Ostashkov - a popular, lakeside holiday resort, if it may so be described. We'd driven through big towns, small towns, country houses, over rivers, past healthy green trees and shrubs of all kinds typical in Russia, yet strangely, in this vast land, there was nothing I could recognize as farming areas. From Ostashkov, another means of transport was needed to make it to Stolobny Island. First though, we needed some sustenance deliberately avoided during the trip, bearing in mind the lack of facilities on the way, should nature call. We decided that the Russian among us would make the inquiries. 

"Parus" (Sail), along the water, about a fifteen-minute walk away, she'd been told, was a good place for a meal. She suggested we walk. Five minutes along, there was no encouraging sight around - countryside, houses and patches of bare land. Another inquiry suggested a further walk. Spying a waiting cab, I made for it and suggested we use it. True to my suspicion once again, time is very subjective. After the long drive, I had no energy left to invest in a wild goose chase; switching to a cab had been a priceless idea sheltering us from the relentless rays of the bright sun.

The driver knew "Parus" alright. And oh, surprise, surprise. When we got there, it was closed - for lunch, for the day, for the season...? Go figure. We tugged at the door, ventured in, and were greeted by a cat in a hurry to hightail it out. A young lady busy chatting on her cellphone, in just enough words so as not to importune her interlocutor, managed to shoo us away with no further explanation than they were closed.

There was hardly anyone in the vicinity, but luck was on our side - a passerby directed us to another place nearby - another cafe. They were open. We made our way in quietly and managed to seat ourselves, with no one's invitation, at a naked table as the hostess/manager/waitress punched numbers away noisily on an oversize calculator, without so much as a glance in our direction. We made sure we gave the seated trio at another table some space; sole occupants of the Soviet-style "stolovaya" we found ourselves in. A sign somewhere said we needed to make our order at the counter - further confirmation of the ideology, reinforced by the spartan decor.

We did as the sign said, keeping it simple, very aware, from past experience, of what might be on the menu but not available in the kitchen. Some grilled chicken and borscht would do it, to be washed down with some tea. All along, we kept our voices down, looking warily around us, careful not to say the wrong thing, and I wondered what we were apprehensive of. Our order placed, the clickety-clack of the keys on the ginormous calculator firing away, we heard one of the trio address the waitress/hostess/manager, asking how much longer they needed to wait for their meal. Apparently, it had been a while, almost an hour since they'd ordered. I would like to say we sank into our comfortable seats bracing ourselves for the long wait for our meal, but we actually sat up right...in anticipation? I'm not quite sure.

I looked at the trio two tables away. Theirs had a table cloth. There's no explanation for why we chose the only table of the six without one. One of the women was dressed to the nines - white lace dress and matching wide-brimmed hat, high-heels, the works. Her companions looked liked they been dragged away from work in the garden to come and grab a bite. Or more like they knew where they were going and dressed to match the decor. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

I commented on the waitress...and her calculator to my friends, wondering what she could possibly be calculating, considering there were only three people in the eatery when we got there. We speculated on what was keeping her busy, giggling like eight-year-olds in a classroom - I suggested it was her homework, Adam said she'd left the monthly accounts till the last minute, Maria said she needed to be sure the total for the bill was accurate; hence the lengthy process. It was the only time we laughed out loud...clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

Eventually, the trio were served the soup they'd ordered. As we watched on hungrily, all that could be heard was spoons hitting plates as the soup was scooped, and slurps as the soup was ingested. It was so quiet we could hear through the open kitchen door the sizzling on the grill. And all along... clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

As the trio got up to settle their bill at the counter, the casually dressed couple treated by the lady in white, we were graced with the first course - borscht. Then we got our chicken and then the tea. Sometime during our meal, the calculator keys were left to rest. All in all, it was an edible meal and we agreed that there really wasn't anything wrong with the place or the service - the manager/waitress/hostess was just very unfriendly, unwelcoming and laidback, probably a very suitable attitude for the region. She brought us our food, didn't she? And we ate it without complaining.

Done and dusted, we called the taxi driver who had driven us to "Parus" to finally get us to our long-anticipated destination - Stolobny Island, to Nilov Monastery for some peace and quiet away from Moscow, and now, Ostashkov. As we were leaving the cafe, the hostess had finally come out from behind the counter to set the few tables in the venue for a special occasion. It was going to be a night of wild reveling at the restaurant, I surmised. 

He was there in four minutes as he'd promised and got us to the monastery in about twenty. It would have been a more enjoyable ride had it not been at breakneck speed and we'd had a chance to admire the greens and blues of the landscape - trees and water in succession. No matter. We made it to our destination in one piece. He stopped before the causeway which we crossed on foot to the monastery gates where we were greeted by a black, marble, engraved slab commemorating the approximately 7,000 Polish prisoners of war comprising lawyers, doctors, teachers and other intellectuals, held there during the Second World War; most of whom were subsequently executed in 1940 in Tver, a few hundred kilometers away.

Once on the monastery grounds, which had been used in Soviet times for various purposes - prisoners' camp, hospital, retirement home, work camp, camp for minors and orphans, tourist hostel, and others - I donned my scarf as required of women and was glad my dress was long enough not to warrant reproach. Similarly, men are discouraged from wearing shorts. A magical, welcoming view to behold, the majestic, neoclassical style cathedral standing in all its splendor on a slight promontory boasts a tall bell tower we later discovered offers a beautiful view of the surroundings, as church bells chime at regular intervals.


The elongated buildings which in the past had provided shelter for myriad occupants, none of them holding any connection to the original purposes for the existence of the complex, have undergone extensive renovation, and are still being done up. They now provide accommodation for visitors like us and showcase artifacts in a museum.

The main cathedral's now white-washed walls, we were told by one of the nuns manning the bookstore, initially exhibited elaborate frescoes by eminent painters of the time. However, underage criminals kept at the monastery during its use as a correction facility, had been urged by their wardens to clean off the paintings in exchange for their release. It is not known whether the jailers kept their word.

We stood in the middle of the compound admiring the architecture, reveling in the quietude, waiting to be escorted to our rooms. Our initial feeling of abandonment soon dissipated after a few minutes as we were eventually beckoned by a matronly figure in a long skirt and scarf and led to our room with new facilities. The bathroom and toilet were reassuringly clean and there was a full-size fridge, as well as a dining table and chairs in a very spacious and light room with three single beds and bedding.

We headed first to the bell tower offering a magnificent view of the extensive lake covering 212 square kilometers, commonly referred to, I'd heard, as a mini-Baikal. Once I made it up there, I was regaled with the shiny, golden dome of the main cathedral, and the forests surrounding the lake populated by several islands - one of which the monastery is built on.

The contrast in colors is breathtaking - the golds of the church, the reds of the roof tiles, the blue sky, the green forest, the neoclassical architecture of the monastery buildings painted in pastel yellow all beautifully reflected in the still lake, accompanied by the wild flowers exhibiting varied bright colors at their best. A feast for the eyes and the soul does not begin to describe this remote, quiet paradise purposefully located away from it all - the luxury of emptying your mind of mundane concerns, communing with nature and feasting on oxygen. I began to understand why monks chose this lifestyle. What more could man need?

All the facilities close at 7pm for supper after which mass is held from 8 to midnight. We made it to the refectory for dinner, more for the experience than for the food since we had eaten not too long ago. Tearing myself away from the view offered from the tower was painful, but I consoled myself with a promise to return. I could have stood there all day contemplating nature. Sadly, I made it down the stairs following my companions as we walked along the path outside the main buildings to the refectory. The hungry from all walks of life were gathered outside waiting to be summoned to tuck in.

We walked in leisurely with the construction workers, pilgrims, tourists...took our seats at the bench-like seats and tables, waited for prayer and the final "Amen" before sitting to eat. Buckwheat, bread, fish soup, cream cheese, jam, otjiga, all to be eaten with spoons and even cakes for dessert. We shared our area with a trio, another trio. I surmised they were mother, son and auntie.

Everyone was very civil and kind, passing plates around and serving food quietly. I missed not having fruit and vegetables, but enjoyed what I could. Expecting a relaxing meal where we could chat about the idyllic surroundings and how lucky we were to be there to enjoy it, I couldn't get over my surprise when barely about five minutes into the meal we were summoned to stand, face the lit icon, and prayers were offered for the meal we had received. Immediately after, plates had to be cleared and the refectory had to be abandoned. I know it for next time now.

I seemed not to get enough of everything - not enough of enjoying the view from the bell tower, not enough of enjoying the peaceful meal at the refectory. We went to look around the cathedral and light some candles. While we were at it we encountered a nun in the book and gift shop who provided us with some information about the origins of and different stages the monastery had gone through. She was about to close the shop in preparation for the church service. I couldn't help but wonder how she coped under the heavy black robe, covered from head to toe - I could barely breathe in a light, sleeveless dress which seemed to weigh me down.

Feeling rushed and in dire need of relaxation, peace and quiet, I took a rain check on the four-hour mass and chose to revel in my bed and my book. What an enjoyable experience, interrupted occasionally by the chimes of the church bells or the engine of a motor boat in the distance, a gentle reminder of where I was and the water surrounding me.

I would have sat outside on a bench but I'd already been tasted by bugs who seemed to have had a fair bit of me for dinner, so I chose to be sheltered indoors. My friends returned at about 11. The mass was still going strong. Still light outside, we went for a walk all bundled up. The sunset had painted the previously blue skies a reddish-pinkish hue I could not get enough of photographing. We walked around chatting and savoring every bit and morsel of this heavenly feast which ended too soon.

Finally in bed for the night, we couldn't help acting like teenagers and being silly for a while. What with the screeching laughter of three adults, I was surprised the monks didn't come banging on the door. The feather pillow robbing me of breath served for more merriment as my suffering was more a reason to be mocked than commiserated with.

Soon it was daylight and time for us to leave Nilov Monastery, said to be one of the largest and wealthiest monasteries in the Russian Empire, founded by Saint Nilus in 1594.  We had enough time for a walk around the monastery again, take it all in once more and fill our lungs with clean air, hopefully enough to last us for a month in polluted Moscow. Once again, feeling rushed, we didn't have time to join the monks for breakfast

starting after morning mass which we couldn't attend either. We had to get on the 10:10 for Moscow - a trip which took eight hours, longer than the trip in, with several smoke stops, and none long enough to attend to a call of nature.

Once off the bus we managed to delve into the goodies we'd bought at the monastery store sold to us by a portly, very patient monk in a black robe who refused to be rushed despite our anxiety not to miss our bus. I understood him. He didn't renounce all earthly goods to come and live in the wilderness to be rushed off his feet by city-slickers.

The food in the store is prepared on the monastery grounds and is all organic. We got some egg and dairy free, tasty cookies and some mors (a berry-based soft drink) all prepared by the monks. I got some tea as well, but had no room for the consecrated honey from their own apiary. I put that on my list for next time, for I will definitely go back. Fall with all the changing colors should be a beautiful time of year to experience it.

Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, Eugene Onegin, Tchaikovsky's Sixth, and Many More...

Where else would you celebrate your birthday as a kid, if you could? The Tchaikovsky Museum in Moscow, of course! That was exactly what a little girl was doing in one of the halls at the Tchaikovsky Cultural Center in Kudrinskaya Street with her guests, all dressed to the nines in fancy frocks and elaborate hairdos, giggling and running around in merriment to mark the significant occasion. How lucky she was, I thought.

Pytor Ilyich Tchaikovsky is said to have lived in about seven or eight different places in Moscow, but the only building still intact is this one which houses the cultural center comprising the museum apartment, two concert halls and a cafe, which most probably provided the catering for the little girl's celebration. It is also used as an exhibition center and sometimes a venue to stage theatrical plays. He lived in this apartment from September 1872 to November 1873. Fragments of his music emanating from a flat screen TV showing the corresponding acts of the ballets or operas fill the air as you tour the apartment - a wonderful treat to sit for about half an hour watching and listening is offered after the tour.

This great composer may or may not have known this fact, but his name is guaranteed to live on eternally. Not only because his work is known worldwide, but also by naming a grandiose concert hall after him, where prestigious musical events take place throughout the year, attached to a high end cafe with an assortment of elaborate beverages, snacks and meals to be enjoyed, while seated in sumptuously upholstered seats. And if you happen to be in at the right time, you may be lucky to be regaled by a performance on a grand, shiny, black piano occupying its well-deserved place in such a beautifully decorated interior of red velvet and dark wood.

The theories surrounding his final moments do not seem very clear, unfortunately, what with the different versions provided by different people. According to one version, while in a restaurant in St Petersburg, where he had moved to from Moscow, he drank a contaminated glass of water resulting from the cholera epidemic that season. Another version says he had been intentionally poisoned. Either way, it is tragic, but his work lives on through ballets, operas and concerts performed everywhere, everyday, every time, and the eminent places bearing his prestigious name.

Memories of "The Nutcracker", his piano concertos and especially his Symphony No. 6, just to name a few of his great works composed during his relatively short lifetime were the draw for my colleagues and me to go on a day trip to the country house in the small town of Klin, about 80 km away from Moscow – the house where he is said to have composed Symphony No.6. It was early summer. The weather was in our favor- mild temperatures, ideal for a pleasant walk of sightseeing.

“So Mila, we are going to your house for coffee this weekend after we visit this museum, aren't we?” I had asked my colleague, a native of Klin.

“Yes” she answered enthusiastically. “You’re welcome to clean.”

The expression on my face changed immediately as I declined the offer. The expression on her face changed as well as. I thought, "now why would I be going to someone's house to clean if I'm invited for coffee"?

The penny eventually dropped. She meant “you’re welcome to Klin” - the name of her hometown and where the Tchaikovsky House Museum is located. I went back to her, apologized and clarified the misunderstanding, which the others in the faculty room also heard, and we all burst out laughing. The laughter, in my opinion, augured a great trip and an interesting experience.

It certainly started with a surprise warranting optimum physical ability to get off the train when we arrived. All five of us were on time to catch the train from Moscow and settled in our seats. Concentrating on the reading material we had equipped ourselves with for entertainment turned out to be a futile effort - we were constantly interrupted by hawkers.

The first one was selling bandaids. To my surprise, she had a lot of eager customers; among them my colleagues. Two of them made the woman’s day as money and goods exchanged hands. They said it was much cheaper than you would normally find in Moscow and useful, what with the summer months and blisters inflicted by dainty sandals in an effort to show off the results of very pricey pedicures.

Shortly after the scene with the bandaids, a woman came into the car selling vegetable peelers with a free demonstration of the wonders the tool could perform. I’m not sure if she got many takers – at least not among my co-travelers. Then it was a man selling plastic toys; the usual gaudily-colored, noisy toys that build in many of us the desire to yank it out of the player’s hands and fling it out the window, and I presume more than one parent wondering "why did I get myself into this"?  The hawker did his best to reinforce those sentiments as he demonstrated the functionality of his goods and invited buyers. By the time the third hawker had passed, I had no inclination to continue reading, and with the heat my co-travelers and I had all packed it in, eyes closed, "resting".

The return trip was no different. As such, my indifference to more hawkers with similar wares - the same din from the wheels of the train grinding on steel, the hawkers trying to do business at the top of their voices...suddenly a peculiarity. I thought I had seen it all till hawker number I'd-lost-count came by selling kittens. Russia certainly never ceases to surprise me.

Shortly before arriving in Klin, we were informed that only the doors of the first five cars would open. Could we not have been informed at the start of the journey? As a result of the remodelling at the station in Klin, there was no platform to step onto from the train. The only solution was for us all to scramble to the closest car which would open. As luck had it, we were in the 11th one. All those in the same situation as us with heavy luggage started walking through the cars to get to a door that would open. When we finally did, oh joy, we couldn't get in.

Thereafter ensued a very violent dialogue between a passenger and the driver through the intercom. His response was, he couldn't open the door and suggested we find our own way out. That mishap resulted in us jumping from the train into a deep trench dug as the foundation for the platform. It came as a pleasant surprise to see some gentlemen hold out a hand to the more bewildered, elderly passenger. A good start to the trip I thought, recalling the laughter that preceded it. Incidentally I looked up to see a sculpted bust of granite of our favorite composer welcoming us to Klin in the midst of overgrown weeds with a few carnations strewn around it. I hoped for the best.

The temperature had risen slightly, warranting a cold drink which we all made a lunge for; more to quench our thirst from the strenuous physical activity than the high temperatures. After that, it was time to find a "marshrutka" (mini bus) and head to our destination. The house stood welcoming in the midst of tall, leafy trees providing shade for the weary walker, as well as an atmosphere of serenity which I am sure the composer craved and cherished. Hence his reason for seeking such a place for the inspiration to bring to life his Sixth Symphony.

A separate building set up as an exhibition center and concert hall housed costumes of the prima ballerinas from different era of performances of Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty and the operas as well. The ground floor showcased school children's drawings of themes from the performances in addition to a separate exhibition of porcelain goods. We had been advised to see that before going to the house museum, and so we did.

As we walked around the rooms in the house museum, taking in the objects he had surrounded himself with to make a home for himself; framed photographs of friends, family and colleagues, furniture, books, a faint melody of his music playing in the background reached us...it was difficult not to feel his presence.

The highlight of the visit was seeing the piano he worked on. According to the caretakers, it was the orginal piano he played and the house had been decorated exactly as it was when he lived there. As is usually the case, the house had fallen into ruins until a benefactor decided to restore it and turn it into a museum for the likes of my friends and me to visit, admire, and learn from. The tranquility to compose brought him to Klin, to this house surrounded by woods where he was said to have usually taken long walks for inspiration. I would be inspired as well in a place like this, had I ever had the talent to compose.

In a clearing in the woods is a big statue of his, looking very much like he is portrayed in any picture, and as I would imagine him resting after a long walk, gathering his thoughts before going back inside to try the newly gathered ideas on the keys. 

We spent the rest of the day walking around the town, making a stop at the ubiquitous War Memorial in every town. Lunch, which would generally not be complete in Russia without a complaint or two about the service, took a couple of hours, after which it was time to catch the train back. Mila stayed behind to spend the weekend with her family and the coffee date was scheduled for an indefinite another time.

The nine-room apartment in Moscow is much smaller than the house in Klin, and is located just about 200 meters from his contemporary, another of Russia's greatest, the writer Anton Chekhov.

Although similarities between the two abodes abound - the shiny, black piano, framed photographs of his friends on the wall, and furniture of the same kind just as in Klin, on display in this apartment were two separate cases containing the personal belongings of Nikolai Rubenstein and Pyotr Jurgenson.

I was particularly excited to see Rubenstein's baton, a versatile man whose activities were not limited to that of pianist, conductor and teacher, but expanded to co-founder and first director of the Moscow Conservatory in 1866. His brother Anton Rubenstein, pianist and composer as well, founded the one in St Petersburg. Nikolai Rubenstein and Pyotr Tchaikovsky are said to have lived together for five and a half years during which their professional relationship and friendship flourished. Tchaikovsky held the position of professor of musical theory and harmony at the Moscow Conservatory when it opened - the second oldest in Russia, and is named after him.

A small treasure in Moscow like many others which the caretakers will be happy to talk to you about if you can speak Russian. Otherwise, there are printed leaflets in English of scant information in each room which are readily handed out.

Tver - Gateway to Moscow

Adam stood shaking his hands to get some warmth back into them - his elegant, Italian leather gloves more of an adornment, rather than fulfilling the purpose he'd purchased them for. A burly, elderly man laden with bulging plastic bags stopped to address us with a smile, "Da, da, russkaya zima." We both burst out laughing; a remarkable effort, tensing and stretching the skin on our faces to cracking point. He was right; "Russian winter." Ironically though, it wasn't winter yet, not by the calendar anyway. It was still fall, but it felt no different from a very cold, winter day. On our way from the train station to explore the city, I wondered about the chore that lay ahead of us in the very low temperatures - sight-seeing.

Treading on lumps of ice and piles of snow, braving sub-zero degrees weather for the sake of exploring a city, required more than willpower. Even determination came short of what was required to embark on a journey of that kind. Reminiscing about the trip a few weeks afterwards, Adam admitted that the walk back to the train station was very tedious - it was unbearably cold, the walk was difficult and interspersed with the occasional slips threatening to send you onto your rear-end, not to mention the laborious effort of trying to keep our extremities warm. I was relieved to know I was not the only one who had felt that way. The next morning, I was so sore, it felt like I had tried out a new sport using muscles I didn't know made up part of my body.

Everyone I had mentioned visiting Tver to gave me a quizzical look. One person said she'd been but had not enjoyed it, another person from a town close to Tver recommended visiting another town, others just said it was a waste of time as there was nothing to do there. Curiosity had gotten the better of me, fuelling my inner drive to make it in time for the 08:09 train leaving Leningradsky Vokzal, to embark on the two and a half-hour journey to Tver. As I made my way there, I thought, "Who wakes up in the middle of the night in winter weather, in Moscow, enough said, to visit a town no one else wants to go to?" There ended up being takers on that one - another victim and myself.

Surely, to have several locations in Moscow named after it, Tver must be of a certain significance in Russia, at the very least in history, I thought. Tverskaya Street in the trendy part of Moscow, Tverskaya metro station leading to the trendy part of Moscow, Tver Hotel now taken over by a well-known multinational chain, but with a preserved air of the bygone era, Tverskaya Zastava, a square in front of Beloruskaya metro station... and possibly a few other places I don't know about yet. There had to be a reason why these places were named after this town. Not to mention that the Sapsan, the Russian high-speed train between the two largest cities in Russia, Moscow and St Petersburg, makes its only mid-trip stop in Tver.

Despite my reasoning, whomever I asked, gave me a similar response: "There's nothing there worth seeing." "There's nothing to do there." Needless to say, my invitations to explore Tver were mocked or met with raised eyebrows - "What on earth for?" Well, Catherine the Great certainly thought it fit to build a palace there for a stop while traveling between Moscow and St Petersburg. The said palace is currently under renovation. She is said to have actually donated a million rubles to build the road her carriage would travel along, known as Million Road.

One of the conductors on the train, a friendly one, asked if we were tourists visiting Tver. He must have been as baffled as others who could only surmise our mission at our  destination. I confirmed his suspicion and complimented him on his English. He mentioned that he'd lived in India for three years as a member of Hare Krishna. With his current full head of dirty blond hair, dressed in a heavy blue uniform, I had difficulty picturing him with a shaved head, robed in a saffron sheet, metal bowl and pestle in hand, chanting rhythmically in a language unknown to me. There was no time to chat, unfortunately, about his experience in India and why he had made the swap back to Russia.

Off the train, finally in daylight, our initial goal was to head for the cafe recommended by a woman on the train who had changed seats to be closer to us. She had heard us speaking English and wanted to be closer to get a chance to exchange a few words with us, or so I supposed. When she did get the chance, she inquired about the purpose of our existence in Russia, which initiated an exchange of impressions about Russia and other places. A native of Tver working in Moscow, she was able to recommend a cafe where we could have lunch and was adamant about us trying the strudel, a specialty of Tver, she informed us. Her response to our request of things to see though, unlike her recommendation for the strudel, was devoid of enthusiasm.

We stopped at a book and stationary store on the way, indulging in what it had to offer. Books are generally very reasonably priced in Russia, and are my weakness. A few greetings cards and some books afterwards, we had managed to warm up a bit, catch our breath and were ready to make it back outside. Bundling up tightly once again, we made it out onto the street ready to trek to our destination - 'Mon Cafe', as recommended by the lady on the train.


Braving the elements and following the map we'd just acquired from the bookstore, we headed to Tryokhsvyatskaya Street, a pedestrian area lined with shops of various merchandise - some open, some about to open, cafes, restaurants and a lively crowd. Further down, we came to the real star of this area - a bakery dating from the 19th century. It certainly warranted a visit. The facade clearly portrayed the era of its heyday. Inside, it was more than just a bakery. Traditional baked goods of all kinds clearly dominated the store in addition to two small round tables with chairs for a quick snack and drink . However, groceries, cold cuts, packaged goods, teas and coffees of different brands had now made their way into the no-longer-exclusively bakery. Nonetheless, the star was the bakery section - cookies, strudels, biscotti, buns, breads of different grains ... all much better priced than in Moscow. Needless to say we stocked up; in my case more for gifts than for personal consumption, and had a well-needed warm drink to tackle the next leg till we reached our destination.

In addition to the variety of goods as an attraction, one of the walls was decorated with pictures of various stages in the life of the bakery. Staff in different era identified by the fashion of their clothes stood in line for these stills in black and white immortalized in frames. Just like the country, it had experienced its fair share of change from before, during and after royal, revolutionary, socialist and current times. It was a significant discovery that neither the conductor nor the woman on the train had mentioned; once again showing what individuals consider worthwhile or not. It had been another stop to warm up.

Back on the street, we encountered an old man on a bench, feet on frozen snow surrounding him, playing a well-known Russian folk song with a catchy tune on an accordion. I have always considered street musicians in Russia very brave, but then again, they are a sturdy bunch. Most people walked past him. We stood for a short while to enjoy the song, keep him company and drop a note in his pan. He rewarded us with a warm smile which must have emerged from the depth of his heart. Wrapped in layers of clothing, topped with a fur hat as his bare fingers nimbly glided over the buttons and his arms extended and contracted the flexible instrument, he did not object to a picture and asked us to come back soon.

The third stop didn't warm us up and we were still a fair distance from the recommended cafe. The pedestrian street opened on to Soviet Square, the arts area, with theaters forming a semi-circle and Lenin ingratiating the passers-by from the other side of the square in a salute from his extended right arm. We were finally in the town center. Million Street, now Soviet Street was not too far away, and neither was Mon Cafe, but we made a stop at a church before finally walking through the doors of the place where we would spend a couple of hours recovering from the walk and the cold.

I had assumed it would be a short and straightforward from the station to the cafe, and then to the river bank along which all the sights are located - the reality was quite different. It was actually tempting not to spend the rest of the day in the comfortable chairs, making order after order of dishes, which would cost about three times more in Moscow, served by staff friendlier than I am used to.

I certainly tried the strudel, two servings - blackberry and apricot. They were both delicious. Tea. Shakes. More tea. My companion had coq-au-vin which he raved about - not only because of the taste, but the price for such a succulent dish. Soft, freshly-baked rolls. More fruit shake. Tea. Eventually, we had to get back outside to see what Tver was about and fulful our purpose of the trip. We piled the layers back on and once again ventured out into the cold unknown.

We crossed the road and waited for the woman on horseback to pass before we walked through the gate to the park. It was all covered in snow - the trees, benches, monuments... we even made and threw a few snowballs. The sunny weather brightened the cold walk to the 3,530-kilometer Volga river on its way through Tver to meet its diminutive partner the Tvertsa. The chance to see another monument of Pushkin standing quietly, full of purpose, people-watching, in his top hat and coat, legs crossed, leaning against a metal railing as he had done from time immemorial, and the neoclassical buildings reflected in the water by the sun up high were enough to make the trip worthwhile. It was quiet in the park and the chance to take in this view undisturbed was priceless, except when Adam decided to roll down the hill almost into the water because the soft, powdery, fresh snow was simply irresistible. He paid the price alright, as the snow covered his thin jacket, got into his clothes, stuck to his skin and dampened his clothes for the rest of the day.

The embankment, considered the heart of the city, is lined with neoclassical, pastel-colored, 18th century architecture, as well as trees and parks of statues. A monument to Afanasy Nikitin, a native of Tver is a graceful addition on the embankment. He is said to be one of the first-recorded Europeans to go to India, penning "Journey Across Three Seas" which became a famous travelogue. He stands astride, facing a long-spire church which seems to be the style favored in Tver, over the onion bulbs.

Two other significant monuments in Tver, in my view, are the two bridges which straddle the Volga. We managed to walk across them both in different directions enjoying the views of the city from different angles, admiring their reflections in the water. After short visits to a couple more churches, it was time to head back to the station. It is this walk that will stay engraved in my mind, and as I walk around certain parts of Moscow in winter, such as my neighborhood, I am forever reminded of that day in Tver.

With no more enticing pit-stops on the way back, the walk from the embankment in Tver to the station was not only long, but painful. The beautiful sun which had kept us company during the day had set. It was bitterly cold. The roads had not been cleaned and what seemed funny at first on our way in as we slipped and laughed was funny no longer. It was a task of endurance. My state of relief back at the train station was immeasurable.

It had been a pleasant adventure, but one that I am in no hurry to repeat, although I will remember the friendliness of the natives of Tver very fondly. I felt for the elderly in Tver, and in many other towns across Russia in similar conditions for several months of the year. I wondered if they would be used to it having lived there all their lives. I feared for them falling, and the conditions a fall on ice would leave them in. I remembered the heavily-laden elderly man who had cheerfully addressed us earlier on in the day as he walked on the same road I had incessantly complained about.

On the other hand, I saw young children running, jumping and skidding on the same ice that I was treading carefully. Maybe I needn't worry after all. These people are resilient and can take it all in stride, no pun intended. They made it through serfdom and Soviet times under the name Kalinin. It must be in their genes, so I think my concerns may be unfounded.

The 160-km train journey back to Moscow was uneventful. Not many people were rushing back to Moscow on Saturday night. However, our companion on the way in, who recommended Mon Cafe ended up being on the same train back to Moscow as us. Her plans had obviously changed as she had mentioned that she was staying for the weekend.We nodded in acknowledgment to one another, but this time we sat in different cars. Tver had taken all I had and I was in no mood for polite conversation. My joy new no bounds when I turned the key in the door to my apartment and limped to my bed.

Hidden Treasures in Moscow

It's all here, for all tastes; museums, art galleries, restaurants, cafés, theaters ... Moscow is a lot of things, but never boring. Offering infinite opportunities to savor culture in all its forms, sometimes these places are not easy to find. From alley way to alley way, buildings numbered haphazardly, not very helpful GPS devices, passers-by who have never heard of the place you may be looking for...but eventually you make it there and marvel at the magnificent spectacle before you.

One such place is The Moscow State Museum Bourganov's House in the heart of Moscow, not too far from Arbat Street. After you have finally found the place, at the sight of the nondescript entrance, you first wonder if the hard work was worth it. But once you venture in, you don't need anyone to answer the question for you. One look around and you know you made the right decision to visit 15 Bolshoy Afanasievsky.

The small door leads into a small reception area and a minuscule bookshop, where a small fee of 100 rubles gives you access to an open-air museum. A plethora of life-size sculptures of feet, hands, eyes, waning moon busts, busts with different motifs await to be admired. I couldn't help thinking I had walked into the world of a Russian Dali. Not having any initial expectations, my first impression was greater than what I'd felt going to the Dali Museum in Cadaques.

Unlike the time in Cadaques, where I wondered around comfortably in light clothing, here it was the beginning of winter. All bundled up, devouring these masterpieces, my fingers turned numb from the endless clicking to immortalize my visit. Despite the discomfort, it was difficult to leave. Every step led to another wonder.

In one building we met a kind security guard who took us behind the scenes to show us the work of restoration going on and where new works of art were being created. The shelves were stacked with a variety of art works amid the chaos which usually characterizes a busy art studio. He showed us around the temporary exhibition of canvases imitating a version of impressionism - unfortunately the gloominess depicted in the paintings did not help much to brighten the atmosphere. A small basement featured an atrium where a framed print of Dali's "The Great Masturbator" as well as smaller versions of the life size sculptures featured outside were on display. A few chairs gave it an appealing air of a quiet reading-room where you'd be surrounded by valuable creations.

And it went on. Shoes, bathtubs, arms, chairs...the neighbors whose windows looked onto these sculptures, in my eyes, were some of the luckiest people in Moscow. Living in the heart of the city with a view of exquisite art; waking up and going to bed with a view over spectacular beauty.

Two hours later, we finally made it back to the warm reception area where we engaged in conversation with the friendliest museum attendants I'd ever met. The receptionist showed us what was on sale - some very expensive jewellery, but also some very affordable books and calendars. In the course of our interaction, she informed us that a few years ago, Pierre Cardin had brought his models to this museum for a photo shoot. She showed us the pictures of the event published in a coffee table book; very impressive. I had no difficulty imagining the whole setup of elegant models in elegant clothes posing by, on and among the surreal sculptures.

She also told us about the artist himself and his beginnings. "The killing of a bird" is apparently partly biographical, explaining the ideas behind the works of art Alexander Bourganov had created. I bought the book to get some more insight into it, making a note to inform others about its existence. The art teacher at my school was grateful to receive the information and mentioned a possible field trip with her students for exposure to more works of art. We had been told that it was visited more by foreigners than by Russians, sadly. The bronze Pietà was my favorite - the loose folds of fabric and the semblance of a body lying across the mother's lap is a heart-wrenching sight.


Alexander Bourganov's works are spread all over the city. The walk from Kievskaya metro station to the Radisson Hotel, formerly the Ukraine Hotel, with a restaurant on the 29th floor and the Mercedes bar on the 30th, offering some of the best cocktails in the city, takes you through a park showcasing beautiful sculptures. The first time I ventured onto the park, I was happy I had my camera - a fountain with a highly-perched golden angel drew my attention, as well as other more somber bronze and stone sculptures. I wondered about the fortunate dwellers of the apartments overlooking these magnificent works of art.

Similarly, a walk in Arbat street takes you past the golden Princess Turandot and the Pushkin couple in front of which tourists and Muscovites alike are forever striking a pose. The beauty of these works of art are irresistible and one cannot pass by without devoting a few minutes to admire them. I was to find out after the visit to The Moscow State Museum Bourganov's House that all these works of art are Alexander Bourganov's as well.

He is still alive and well, still working, still creating, I was told. The attendants were just too happy to have someone to share this information with.

After a morning feeding the soul, it's time to feed the body, and take in another form of art. Pioneer movie theater in Kutuzovsky offers movies, good food and food for the mind. I'd been told it was a theater where movies were shown in the original language, but I hadn't been told about the décor. I can't imagine its size as a movie theater if it has now been refurbished and fitted with a restaurant on two floors and a bookstore.

With the low temperatures outside, I appreciate the opportunity of several activities under the same roof, not to mention that anywhere I can find books is my personal haven, and Moscow has lots of such places to offer. Dom Knigi on New Arbat Street and its smaller version on Tverskaya are my favorite hangouts. Pioneer Cinema in Kutuzovsky is another piece of treasure in this mine.

We chose a comfortable seat after trying two others and had the place to ourselves. Our kind, attentive waiter made the experience of a light meal before the movie a delightful experience - stir fry chicken, almond cookies, honey cake, mulled wine and two good servings of ginger tea, all promptly served in a welcoming atmosphere, honoring the taste buds. "All Is Lost" starring Robert Redford restored my faith in not giving up hope, extending the pleasant experience further.

A trip to the bookstore at the other end of the hallway with a 10-meter ceiling, at least, was a must. The three chandeliers of elaborate work on the high hallway ceiling are probably the only vestiges of the Soviet-era after the building was refurbished. The small, well-stocked bookshop did not disappoint me. The only time I do not complain about prices in Moscow is when I buy books; be they in Russian or English, and this time was no different. I bought a text book "English for Banking" for 38 rubles, and a novel by an Indian writer for 137 rubles. My excitement knew no bounds as I considered the value of my acquisition - just about 5 dollars.

Meal - check, movie - check, books - check, and back out into the snow in double-digit, subzero temperatures. We retraced our steps to the metro station past the French signs on stores selling extremely expensive and unnecessary goods. La Cornue was a kitchen gallery, a pink velvet bedside table with very long legs was displayed in the window of Bonpoint, as well as a white dining table of indiscernible material and accompanying red velvet chairs, Fleurs de Paris informed passers-by that it was open 24 hours.

Finally, the Museum of Architecture which is just a stone's throw from Arbat metro station is worth a visit; if not for the display of the new plans to restructure the city, for the buildings themselves - three. The main building housing displays of new plans for the city on flat screen TVs offers a view of the classical, Soviet-style building - high ceilings, marble floors, elaborate chandeliers, shiny, wooden balustrade supporting wrought-iron rails as you go up the grand staircase, arch doorways, and in this case, frescoes on the ceilings as well as marble reliefs, contrasting tremendously with the flat screen TVs displaying ever-changing slides.

I was grateful to the woman for suggesting we put our coats on to go out to the next building. It had been gutted and offered no protection whatsoever against the biting cold which our coats had difficulty protecting us against. The exhibition theme was religious, and eclectic - naif-style, religious paintings, wooden, plastic and metal sculptures on wooden stands, fabric, and more of those underground. Following the religious theme, included in the display were several models of Orthodox style churches - some built from scratch, others restored. The main attraction was a laptop on a shelf shielded by paintings on multi-colored fabric - a small step ladder was provided to climb on to see what the electronic gadget displayed. Unfortunately, there were no attendants to offer any information and none was provided.

The third building, surprisingly warm, displayed architectural styles of buildings in Moscow inspired by or copied from those in other cities mostly in the Netherlands. Finding the buildings in Moscow would be difficult as no addresses were provided. All in all, it had been a worth-while visit during which we spent over an hour admiring the various displays.

These are just three of the several treasures housed in this megalopolis called Moscow.