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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
