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.