Sheki in Green and White

It is always better the second time round, or so the saying goes. After my first visit to Sheki, I had vowed in the presence of others that I was done with it, having no reason to go back on a five-hour drive from Baku to see a palace and a church.

The first time I saw the Caucasus Mountains they were white, covered in heavy snow. The roads were icy and slippery, and as much as I could admire their spectacular beauty, I was tired and in dire need of rest more than sightseeing.

This time, however, it was the end of the school year. Things had wound down and I was in a better mood. The mountains had also shed their stark, white look and turned green - they had regenerated just as I had after surviving my version of a harsh winter.

I was eagerly looking forward to some R and R after the students had been sent away to their fate with their report cards. It was now my turn to sleep in, read what I wanted to read and not worry about all the things that teachers spend ten months of the year worrying about.

Despite my determination not to repeat it, the invitation from a colleague to join her family on their first visit to Sheki to celebrate her belated birthday and surviving the school year was irresistible. It took little convincing for me to pack and join her, her husband and their adorable five-and-a half-year old, Ruslan, on this long drive which was worth every minute of it. I also had something to celebrate - surviving the year.

I spent the first day after arrival being idle, inhaling fresh air from the balcony of the villa I had rented at the resort ensconced in the valley overlooking the green mountains, going through page by page of the almost five hundred which made up a rom-com of a modern-day chick lit I'd managed to lay my hands on before setting off.

We were a few miles away from the Russian border of the Caucasus region, in an idyllic location reverberating wellness, freshness and calmness - a far cry from the honking cars and screeching tires I heard incessantly from my fifteenth floor apartment in Baku. I would enjoy it more if the PA system here did not play any music, but the silence might become too eerie for the guests.

We spent the next day sightseeing and this time the visit was in reverse order from the previous time. We first went to Kish Albanian Church where I got to learn more about Azerbaijan than I had on my first visit. I had seen the broad-shouldered, two-meter-plus skeletons on display under glass coverings on my first visit in the frigid weather, but had not been told then that before Azerbaijan got its current name, it was called Albania and the natives were tall (as the skeletons prove), blue-eyed, blonde and Christian.

As nature, or evolution would have it, natives of darker races started settling here, bringing Islam with them, marrying and bearing children with the Albanians. Centuries of this cohabitation is what has given Azerbaijanis the current more Middle-Eastern than northern European look they originally had.

The small, round medieval church on a hill overlooking the mountains, with bare single lancet windows, letting in narrow rays of sunlight was dimly lit electrically to exhibit information about the history of the church and the crypt below. I stood in for a while reading about it, eventually coming outside to look at the mountains surrounding the town and the garden covered in fully-blossomed rose bushes.

The stone fountain I had drunk chilled, fresh water from on my previous visit stood as dry as a bone and the glass I'd drunk from naively expecting a miracle transformation of a kind I am still not sure about, stood under the tap bone dry as well, showing sand-coloured rings of different levels of water. I wondered if the glass ever got washed but chose not to ask the curator who had enlightened us about Azerbaijani history and culture.

After another walk around the church garden admiring the pink roses and a sarcophagus that little Ruslan led me by the hand to go and see, another look at the green mountains and the opportunity to breathe some more fresh air, it was time for us to go on to our next destination navigating the narrowest, of streets possible.

I'm not quite sure what the road etiquette is in these cases; the driver of Zhigouli we met head-on had no choice but to reverse as far back as he could in order to let us pass. Fortunately, no one else was coming up till we made it to the bottom of the hill.

Instead of driving up to the palace gate as I had done in the winter on my previous visit, we parked further down at the bottom and climbed the steep, gravel hill through the palace complex, revelling in the mild temperature and live folk music as we made our way up to the palace itself.

The 400 year-old trees we had been told were the guardians of the palace were now leafty. The garden was well-tended and the rose bushes fully-blossomed into pink flowers. We enjoyed the fresh air as we sat outside waiting to be called into the palace for our turn to tour.

Being the only foreigner in a group of Azerbaijanis, I understood nothing of what was said, but having had a private tour during my previous visit, I was content to simply have another chance to admire the interior decorations once again. From the outside, it is impossible to see the magnificent work of variegated stained glass at the interior of the majlis.

It is said to be put together with no glue or any other substance to hold it together and is the only one of its kind in the world. No photography is allowed inside, however, a model of the window using the same technique can be found in the Shirvanshahs Palace in Baku.

Completely disregarding the no-photography policy was an obese, elderly woman in a blue and white polka-dotted dress filming and pretending she had not heard the order although her attention was drawn to it loud and clear. In addition, there was a big sign displayed outside right at the entrance. Needless to say, I was furious that such disrespectful people would get away with breaking the rules.

The tour takes you through the majlis where the ruler met with other male figures of government or laymen, the library and the ruler's secretary's office. A staircase with the highest steps one can imagine leads you to the women's meeting area and two other rooms with ornate ceiling decorations at the request of the queen to portray not only the ruler's strength and dominion over his subjugates, but also his love for them and the country he presided over.

We had driven along the main artery of Sheki about six times on the way to or back from one place or another. On my previous visit, not interested in the trinkets on sale there I hadn't paid attention to its significance. This time I was curious to know what is was called.

We found out that it was named after Mirza Fatali Akhundov and simultaneously found a sign to his house museum which obviously warranted a visit, I thought. It took a few twists, turns and asking of directions, but we eventually made it to the house on the hill, where a kind curator filled us in on the wonders and achievements of this national hero, after whom the national library in Baku I had walked past on several occasions is named.

A single hall to the left from the entrance housed a few personal items of his; some photographs, his personal gramophone and paintings of his parents. Behind this building was a two-room, single-storey building housing a kitchen and living area where he was born, we were told.

His father, an Iranian landowner and businessman had come to Sheki on business, got caught up in some kerfuffle or other, could not go back immediately to Iran, stayed in Sheki and married a local woman. Mirza was the product of that union, becoming his father's only son and fourth child, after the three daughters he had left behind in Iran.

Growing up, he was well-educated, developed an interest for literature and worked as a translator, teacher and writer. According to Wikipedia, he was dubbed 'the Azerbaijani Moliere' by the German Magazine of Foreign Literature. One of his greatest achievements, which I personally found remarkable, was his keenness for alphabet reform; accommodating the Perso-Arabic script to satisfy the phonetic requirements of the Azerbaijani language as we were informed by the curator. Having spent most of his life in Tbilisi, Georgia, a cultural museum there is named after him which I hope to visit when I get the chance to go there.

It had been a morning full of culture and finally time to tackle another aspect of it; this time, culinary. I had been strongly advised to try the Sheki typical dish - piti - and had been assured I would love it. A dish, I was told, of lamb, a big portion of its fat, chickpeas, sour apricots, potatoes and seasoning, cooked slowly for several hours in a special earthenware pot, more like a cup as I saw. Though I didn't order it, my travel companions did and I had the chance to try it. More than the taste, I was interested in the ceremony of serving and eating.

It is served steaming hot in an earthenware cup. The broth is poured out, sumakh - a purplish saffron-like seasoning - is added as well as pieces of bread and eaten as the first course. Next, the solid contents left in the cup are mashed together with a fork and then transferred to the plate, making it unnecessary to use a knife to eat it. I had a taste, in fact, a few mouthfuls and tasted mostly lamb. Gagarin restaurant where we had had lunch is an outdoor venue where the diners sit at tables under linden trees.

'What a beautiful child!' ooohed and aaahhed a middle-aged woman walking in our direction. I took a look at her and continued minding my business. She continued harping on his blondness, his beauty, his posture, his parents...

'Could I take a picture of him?' 'I love taking pictures of beautiful children.' 'Is it alright if I take a picture of him?' 'I so love beautiful children.' 'He's so beautiful.'

She had started her adulation from a mile away; getting louder and louder as she approached our table. Finally there, she asked the parents' permission, promising she wasn't going to do anything untoward with

their son's picture and stressing that she just loved photographing beautiful children.

'If his father does not object...' responded the child's mother.

The father did not object and I turned my back to look at the horizon as she clicked away asking the child the usual getting to know you questions - 'How old are you?' 'Are you having fun?' 'What's your name?'

The obedient child that Ruslan was answered each of the questions with a shy smile as his parents looked on.

Different place, different culture, I thought.

As the linden fell onto our heads, tables and into our food from the heavily laden, fully-blossomed trees, it brought back a tinge of nostalgia of Russia where linden tea is consumed delightfully and copiously. A short discussion ensued about the plant, its use in tea and honey, and the pun of the word in Russian. At the end of our meal, it would have been hard to tell that just a short while ago the table was covered with dishes of salad, chicken kebab, qutab and piti.

Dessert would be next door, we decided. The hotel next to the restaurant had a 'tea set' on its menu consisting of a pot of tea and local sweets. I had also been told not to miss Sheki bakhlava, which I had been assured was to die for. My travel companions confirmed the theory and were also eager to try it, this visit to Sheki being their first.

None of us were disappointed as the sweets lived up to their reputation, and the Azerbaijani tea ceremony was honored. We sat for a while enjoying the tranquility, the mountain view, occasionally jolted from my reverie by screeching wheels below, with no desire to leave the paradisiacal setting. But all good things do come to an end so we set off back to our own piece of celestial haven. The peacefulness of the location was authenticated by the three horse-riders we passed on the way back.

Time to digest the cultural and nutritious intake by the pool, watch the sun slowly hide behind the mountains...at least that was the plan which unfortunately had to be scrapped. We needed blankets to sit outside and with the clouds there was no sunset to color our evening. It actually felt like snow in the air which would not be difficult as the summits were still snow-capped. I'd slept with the air condition on the night before; today I need a jacket. I could also understand why the khans chose Sheki for their summer residence - the cool mountain air in the summer evenings would appeal to anyone.



The trip back to Baku took us through the mountains again. The green mountain pass through Akhsu region did not seem heavily populated. Every so often we came across several unmanned stalls selling a colored, pancake-like snack made of sour plum, I was told. Laid out, they looked like the circles on the twister mat.

A fork at the bottom of the mountains showed Ismayli to the left and Baku to the right. The further away we got from Sheki and the closer we got to Baku, the more arid the mountains became as green foliage gave way to a dirty beige sand. We went through roadworks, more mountains and soon after the roads started getting more and more congested, the driving got more and more reckless... we're back in Baku.

Old and New Meet in Baku

We had finally made it into the city after a wide detour and our little school bus got the chance to drive on the same roads the race cars had been speeding on scarcely a few hours ago. It was so smooth on the recently paved roads for the event that it didn't feel like we were in Baku.

For several weeks, all people had talked about was the Formula 1 race. Ads selling exorbitant tickets came up every time a website was accessed; there were speed-blurred, mauve posters all over the city advertising the upcoming event, roads had been blocked indiscriminately on and off for paving for several months, people had been saving for one or several of the coveted seats, and I taught my lessons as usual, observing the on-goings from a distance.

The twenty year 7 students were lost in the gadgets they had brought with them as I reveled in the excitement of what it must have felt like to be flying at high speed within the city, where more often than not, even fifty kilometers an hour is hardly manageable, as we were doing, with traffic chock-a-block. My excitement and reverie didn't last long; in no time we had reached our stop and it was now time to walk through the old city to our destination - Shirvanshahs Palace.

Our trip to Shirvanshahs Palace in the Old City of Baku had had to be postponed twice as even the metro had been predicted to be unbearably crowded with the whole city cordoned off for the races. The cloudy day turned out to be in our favor, saving us from the scorching heat of the previous days' temperatures in the high 30s Celsius. There was a slight breeze blowing in the mild temperature which I was thankful for in a stone and concrete, medieval, cobblestone city with hardly any vegetation for shade as we walked along. However, these favorable circumstances were not enough to save me from hearing, 'Where can we get some water?' "Are we going to stop for water?' 'How much longer till we eat?' 'I'm parched.'

We virtually had the city to ourselves to walk around at our leisure - being a weekday in the day time, except for a handful of tourists, there was not much else going on. Our first stop was for a group picture at Maiden Tower (Qiz Qalasi) - a prominent, cylindrical, 28-meter, inaccessible, stone structure erected in the southeastern part of the fortress city; a symbol of Baku before it was usurped by the three shiny, also prominent, Flame Towers. The history of the tower does not seem to be clear as many hypotheses are said to have been made regarding it. The only possibility academicians seem to concur on is that it was a part of the defense system for the State of the Shirvan rulers. We were on our way to see their palace.

The recently restored monuments in the city vied for the cameras aimed at immortalizing them through lenses of various capacities. The city was clean and the steep alleyways, reminiscent of kasbahs in ancient Arab cities, extended invitations to walk through and be admired. The ornate protruding balconies, ubiquitous in Malta, which could challenge Baku to a wind gust competition, added special charm and beauty to this city with the glistening, ultra-modern Flame Towers looming in the horizon. The only audible sounds were the voices of twenty children chattering away and an occasional call to order by one of the monitors if they got out of line.

Once at the palace, we gathered under the welcoming apricot tree laden with fruit as we waited for the tour arrangements. For a modicum fee of 2 Manat we were promised a very informative, interesting and eye-opening tour of Shirvanshahs Palace - a gem in Baku, I found out. Built between the 12th and 15th centuries, as we were informed by our guide, it consisted of three inner courtyards, a mosque, tombs, a bathhouse all within the fortress walls. This architectural complex has been conferred the title of UNESCO World Heritage Site and is considered 'Baku Acropolis' we were further informed.

The tour started in the courtyard where a well in disuse is located; covered by a grate which more than one of the students had tried to slip a hand through. They paid little attention to the guide's presentation or the arch structures all around the courtyard in perfect symmetry. We then went through a plain, wooden door with brass handles under intricate inscriptions in relief in stone. This led us to a small courtyard and to the Throne Room, devoid of a throne, exhibiting period coffee pots, incense burners and traditional musical instruments.

As we admired the objects on display, my students diligently took selfies with the swords and vases, in the midst of which Seyfaddin called out to me in the dimly-lit hall, 'Miss, Miss, come and see! 'I wondered what I needed to go and see in such haste.

'My name is here! My name is written here!' he exclaimed in more excitement than I've ever heard him muster about anything in the year he's spent in my English lessons.

'Look Miss, Gandil is written here.' That was his last name.

'I guess that makes you royalty, Seyfaddin,' I said. He firmly agreed with me, nodding his head repeatedly to confirm his new-found realization. He was speechless.

'Yes,' he eventually managed to utter and agree with me again. I'm not quite sure he knew what I meant but if seeing his name on a trip for an English class can get him that excited, I'm more than happy not to dig any further, not getting an initial answer to what his name meant and why it was under a vase.

It was concluded that Seyfaddin was royalty and had just found out his status though he couldn't tell us the lineage or the connection to the beautiful, metal vase with his name for a label. The guide was nowhere to be found to help us with the clarification so we continued our tour with no guidance.

The dome which in the past had been covered in beautiful mosaics was destroyed, we were told, when Peter the Great bombarded the city. I had no idea he had gone that far all the way from Saint Petersburg.

In proper museum style, the palace was equipped with carpets, period clothes, jewelry, portraits, unusual footwear and weapons which we admired as we shuffled from room to room. The final exhibit was a model of the city presided over by a portrait in laser technology of the current head of state with information about his life and achievements.

A peculiarity not to be missed and pointed out by the guide is the women's door to the mosque, where they were only allowed on Fridays, placed strategically so as not to be seen by men when they came to pray - one of the only two places they could go outside their home. The other was the bath house where they would take their finest jewelry and clothes to dress up and show off. It is hard to imagine that life today in Baku where women walk around dressed in casual clothes.

So much art, beauty, culture and knowledge seemed overwhelming for my eleven-year old
companions who were finally happy to be able to crawl underground to the tomb built by the order of Shirvanshah Khalilullah for his son and his sons' teacher, we were informed, although the guide book said son and mother.

Little did that matter to the kids whose main interest was the spookiness of going down the steep uncomfortable steps underground and coming back up to lock themselves in the chamber above. They took little or no notice of the Bayil Stones, remnants of Bayil Castle (bayil meaning outside) excavated and brought to Baku from an island in the Caspian Sea.

Whether they took in anything the guide had said or not is yet to be seen. What they did take seriously was a fish pond which was also a wishing well they could throw coins in for luck, probably due to concerns about the grades in the report cards they would be receiving imminently, which would determine their lives this summer, or maybe not.

After several further inquiries of,  'When do we get to eat?' 'Where do we get to eat?' 'Are we going to eat?' and many such more, we thanked the guide who led us to the way out and made no effort to hide her glee at seeing the back of our heads as she closed the gate firmly behind us, possibly letting out a loud sigh of relief which I did not bear witness to.

If I hadn't heard those same questions about fifty times, I hadn't heard it once. And yet, now that we were on our way to eat, they had to stop to buy souvenirs at which I exclaimed, 'Obviously, you are not that hungry or thirsty, are you? See how you survived just like I said? Because if you had died as you incessantly reminded me that you would, due to your parched throat, your groaning tummy, your dehydration because you had sweated so much and needed replenishing, you wouldn't be standing there buying that souvenir, would you?'


And what was the souvenir?

A bullet.

A sword.

At Fountain Square, the group split into those who wanted the colonel's chicken and those who preferred the golden arches. The ratio was 7:13. The colonel was apparently not very popular, or his chicken may not have been. I went to the nearby coffee shop in the hope of being served a soy latte, but it just remained a hope. I got sparkling water instead.

At the agreed time, the archers seemed to be rolling out of the restaurant, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to conquer the route to the bus stop. We met the privates who had been waiting for a while up the road and made it to the bus which picked us up punctually. As we made our way to the meeting point, we saw all the facilities of the recently ended great event being pulled down. In a few hours, there would be no signs in the city of the highly-acclaimed three-day celebration, but the sign in town inviting us back next year will hopefully stay as a reminder.

We bounced along on the bus with its out-of-whack suspension from what may have been the starting point of the race. It was quite a treat to follow the same route as the race car drivers, albeit in a rickety school bus past the empty seats along the road previously filled with spectators, the rails behind which onlookers may have been pushing one another out of the front row for a better view, or simply lurking and getting a high on the adrenaline the noise produced.

We went past the major sights in the city on the Boulevard; the Fours Seasons, the Hilton, the Marriot and the major malls to our left with the sea to our right, the breeze blowing through the open windows till we hit Nefchilar Street and I came back to reality. I don't think the race car drivers went that way. We were now off the race track in the city heading towards the industrial area through the furniture shop road. I have been told you can buy any piece of furniture there.

We had left the vibrant city behind, with its touristy, medieval area and soon after alighted from our ride which had returned us to the daily routine of books and breaks.

Quba - of carpets and plov and saving a dog

It may have been the weather, or simply typical teenage behaviour; either way, I chose not to ask. Instead, I focused on finishing my egg-white omelette which the cook had put a significant amount of care into making and brought to my table to enjoy with a mug of steamy, frothy soy latte.

'Miss, no one wants to go on the cultural tour' is how the morning started, to which I retorted, 'fine,

you're going.' I didn't raise my head to meet the eyes of the messenger, Umid, therefore, I am in no position to judge whether his reaction was shock, disappointment, anger or something else.

I had not prepared myself for that one, though I was ready, as group leader, for any other kind of emergency.

Shortly after, another messenger came by with the same message. No response, no discussion and no compromise. 'We are meeting at the agreed time and going on the cultural tour' was my sole declaration.

And so it happened that we were met by a professional tour guide in the city center to show us the highlights of Quba. The Meydan is a small square with benches and willow trees with a few, supposedly, retirees basking in the sun. We walked noisily past them to the Juma Masjid - a small mosque built in the 19th century, as we were told, in typical Quba province style with a single minaret outside. With no activity going on inside we were able to spend some time admiring its intricately ornate 16-meter dome.

After the short visit and lecture, we put our shoes back on and continued towards the carpet museum, our next stop, but not before the students had refilled on junk food as if they hadn't just left a whole breakfast buffet.

We walked past Sakina-Khanum Mosque built from red bricks in 1854. As the guide informed us, the

lady after whom the mosque is named had been a prominent woman in Quba, married to Abbasgulu Bakikhanov (1794 -1847) - an Azerbaijani writer, historian, journalist, linguist, poet and philosopher, descendant of the ruling Khanate of Baku and nephew of the last khan of Baku. It is an eye-catching building on the main road certainly warranting a few queries.

We finally made it to the carpet museum about three minutes away. Our presence was met with women hollering at one another which was translated to me as, 'there are guests here, there are guests here, come on down.'

It is said that carpets from Quba are among those that stand out among

Azerbaijani carpets. The room smelt of fresh wool and a few women were seated at looms; their fingers moving deftly as they intertwined different colors of yarn knot by knot which would become the full size, beautifully designed carpets we saw in the showroom. We were informed by our guide that in 2010, the traditional art of Azerbaijani carpet weaving was inscribed on the list of Intangible Cultural Heritage of the UNESCO.

As would be the case, our visit was the highlight of the day, or possibly the week, or in the history of the museum with my presence, as we noticed people coming out of their homes waiting for us to pass by, probably notified by others aware of our presence in the small town. The room was well lit with natural light and a vase of divine-smelling, freshly-cut, pink roses on a table exuding a special charm which I'm sure helped bring joy to the weavers hearts whenever they looked at them or had the opportunity to take a whiff. We took our time to look around and be shown the looms, the work, the wool and the wonders of the carpet museum. Our farewell was received with nostalgia and of course, a request to be immortalized digitally on phones equipped to do so.

A short two-minute walk further was the no-longer-operational, more like derelict hamam with its unique beehive-shaped dome made of brick. As abandoned buildings go, it had its fair share of overgrowth and garbage. Our guide lamented on the state of the place telling me that the government must do more to preserve places such as this one, which must have been of a certain prominence in its heyday. I couldn't agree with him more; having to go up and down rickety steps which might give way any moment and longing for a machete to cut my way through the overgrowth just to see the dome close-up, all the while being extra cautious not to fall through a hole and catapulted into despair.

We ended up spending about three-quarters of an hour at the hamam where there was not much to see except admire the ruins of a building of a certain historical significance that no one had taken the trouble to restore or maintain. As it turned out, my students became the RSPCA of Azerbaijan and took the time to free an abandoned, tied up, or possibly entangled stray dog. Their job was commendable as the dog could be heard whimpering in pain while they worked hard to free it. We all cheered as they proclaimed their task accomplished and we were free to head on.

Twenty-three pairs of footsteps, not counting the guide's, echoed down the ramp at the memorial erected to honor those massacred in a bout of ethnic cleansing. The mass grave containing the remains of 400 souls was discovered during renovation works of the stadium built on that site. The museum guide informed us that as a kid he had played at that stadium, unbeknownst to him or his teammates, on top of the remains of those whose lives had been so brutally and sadly taken away.

The walls of the walk down the ramp were adorned with framed pictures in black and white of well-known Azerbaijaini figures of eminence in politics as well as the arts.

The large, cold, silent hall was presided by a sleek black rectangular marble structure in the center, which we were informed represented the departed. Another group had come in behind us but they seemed to have breezed through the memorial as they left before us. The voices of the students echoed in the hollowness of the hall where more pictures were displayed. The solemnity of the place demanded more respect, regard and reverence, however, I think that at fourteen, with your hands clutching on firmly to the junk food you will be ingesting once the talk is over, none of that is on your mind, or your list of priorities, for that matter.

A blue, lined-book of condolences stood on a lectern where I scribbled a few words which were accompanied by a signature or two of some students. One had to be informed that a book of condolences is not where you sing praises to your new school, but I presume such lessons are yet to be learned.

The stark interior contrasted heavily with the greenness of the exterior in the early summer weather. The apple trees had started bearing fruit and the cypresses stood tall and erect in their thinness hoping to gain some volume with the passage of time. One could not help but think about the barbarity that took place at this site about a hundred years ago. As we walked to the actual remains of bones and skulls, the guide informed us that the perpetrators had specifically chosen this spot by the Gudyal River with the expectation that the river would gradually wash away all the remains, but alas! it was not to be. It stayed intact as a testimony and a lesson to future generations in the hope that such atrocities may not be repeated.

Viewing the chamber housing the remains concluded our tour - a lesson which the students would have retained at varying degrees. Personally, I hoped the retention would be high. Our guide asked me if I'd liked the mass grave. I would like to think he wanted to know if I appreciated the memorial for the dead.

'I don't think there is anything to like about a mass grave' I said to him. 'It is tragic, very sad.'

He agreed with me and I hope we understood each other. I couldn't say I liked it. I thought it was a good deed to honour the dead, but like...We walked back through the memorial garden, up the marble steps and on to our bus for lunch following the guide's directions.

Seating 24 people in a local restaurant without a reservation turned out much easier than I had

anticipated. A helpful student had informed me that the name of the restaurant was named after a typical Azerbaijaini dish. 'Shah Plov'. Plov, it turns out is not exclusive to Azerbaijan; Russia has its version as well. Hazel Plush, a travel writer for The Telegraph, described plov in one of her articles as "a greasy poor man's risotto of lamb, raisins, carrots and onion". I beg to differ on that note since none of the plovs I've had bore any resemblance to what she had described.

The presentation of the plov at this local restaurant was just as Tugay had described it. The rice and other ingredients are wrapped and cooked in lavash, a thin unleavened bread. The dish is then presented as if were a cake and sliced accordingly with the contents pouring out slowly, the waft and the vapour testifying to it provenance. Not everyone ate plov, but all ate to their hearts' content.

Thus, concluded the cultural tour of this city located in a fertile region of northeastern Azerbaijan in a best known for it forests as well as its production of apples and fine carpets, located at about 170 km from Baku.
We missed out on many other places planned for in the itinerary, however, the weather was a great deterrent. We missed the picnic in Nizami Park and only drove through Red Town on our way to dinner, where cows shared the road with vehicles as you would see in India.

Buying a dust-sucker in Baku

Is there one that goes 'how many people does it take to sell a vacuum cleaner in Baku'? Maybe there should be.

I had moved into a new apartment in Baku and needed a vacuum cleaner. Easy, I thought. I'd go to the one home store I was familiar with, where I'd bought the drying rack, ironing board, bucket, brush, mop and other household goods. They should have vacuum cleaners.

A colleague of mine came up with a better idea which is how we ended up side by side in my classroom during our lunch break as she helped me choose and purchase a vacuum cleaner online to be delivered the same day or within the next two days. She had said I'd find a larger range of choice online than I would in a store as she didn't seem to be able to recommend a store where I could get one, after discarding my idea of going to that big household goods store.

It certainly felt like a better option than going shopping and avoiding all the hassle. Moreover, I was grateful for her suggestion when the subject had come up in the course of other discussions.

We'd gone through a series of models. Unfortunately, the one she would have liked me to buy was not available, but we managed to find the next best thing.


Click here, drag there, punch in figures...we'd agreed on the model I'd like and the amount I'd like to pay.

'Name... what's your address?'

'I don't know' I responded like an illiterate.

Expecting to be reprimanded, I was surprised my colleague was not surprised. I had never seen a plaque with a street name anywhere in the vicinity or on the building. In the last few weeks since I'd moved in, I'd given directions to visitors as the tall, brown building you see once you are out of the metro, which I'd never been on. It towers over everything and is difficult to miss. My directions drew a few jocular comments but certainly got the guests to the house-warming party we'd arranged.

Unfortunately, these directions would not work for internet purchases.

I had hoped my driver would be able to help - a local who picked me up every morning and dropped me off after work was at a loss as well. He suggested I call the security officers at the door.

My colleague took charge of the conversation with the doorman, and lo and behold, there wasn't exactly an address, so she was advised to write more or less the same directions I'd given on numerous occasions and put in the doorman's phone number for the delivery crew to contact him. Not only did I not feel foolish any longer, but I was relieved to be spared the trip.

As fate would have it, the internet purchase was not meant to be and had I known, I would have invested my precious lunch time in something more productive. After three attempts, the website eventually crashed on us and that was the end. Plan B. I'd have to go to that store after all.

After work, I joined others in the rush hour traffic in the opposite direction of my usual homebound route to Ram Store instead, as I've been told it is called, though I have never seen a sign anywhere confirming the name. This big warehouse-like building, sprawling over an extended area sold all household goods, or so I thought, until I walked in various directions looking for the section which would have a vacuum cleaner.

My failure at finding one eventually compelled me to ask one of the attendants who were busy commenting on and giggling at my appearance rather than offering their help to a customer who in all likelihood seemed to be looking for an item she couldn't find.

A big no, no is what I was told. I couldn't hide my disbelief. Thinking she had misunderstood my query, I asked her again and demonstrated. She reiterated her response. Not knowing whether to believe her or not, I took one last walk again around. Satisfied at last that she was right, I proceeded to walk through the checkout with nothing to check out.

As I stood outside looking around collecting my thoughts about the experience I'd just had, I wondered where else I could go, not knowing the city very well and not having received any assistance from the sales people I'd just left behind.

The driver, once again, was not helpful either. All he could do, he said, was to take me to the mall across town. After a full day's work, a mall was not high on my list, especially when I didn't know where to find what I needed. My only resort was my colleague. Pouring my frustrations out on her, she solved the problem by giving me directions to the internet store we'd tried to purchase from, but my driver, as usual, did not know where it was.

Different thoughts about the driver's competence went through my mind but I refrained from voicing them out loud. Plan C.

Having refused to be driven across town to a mall, he offered another place which may have them. The uncertainty did not bode well with me so I opted to return home and think about what to do. Perhaps the weekend would be a better time. As he drove me home, he looked around just as I did, and just about a kilometer from the tall brown building was an electronics shop where he stopped and suggested we go in for a look.

Outside the entrance, two of the shop's attendants in red T-shirts with the brand's logo were propped on makeshift seats from paint cans and a bucket enjoying a smoke break. They could have been out all day - there was no activity in the store. It was a German brand franchise store which carried vacuum cleaners in addition to other household electronic goods. I looked at the different models as I listened to the third shop attendant's spiel and eventually chose one.

'I'll take it.' I said, finally relieved I wouldn't need to go on any more rounds and sure it was one I could afford.

It was carried off the shelf and transported to a socket beside a desk manned by two ladies of different generations. The younger one in trendy skinny jeans and a tight top which left nothing to anyone's imagination, shod in flats. The other in a dress, heavily made up, sporting a hairdo showing signs of further contributing to damaging the already fragile ozone layer. I wasn't quite sure what their role in the shop was, but would soon find out.

I was reassured by the machine's powerful yet bearable sound. The driver, with the authority of one in the know, tested its sucking abilities by placing his hand at the nozzle. He nodded his head in approval. I was just happy to be going back home with a useful, reliable appliance.

'Is blue alright?' The attendant asked. By this time the other two had joined in. Given their identical looks or my tiredness, I couldn't tell who had been out smoking and who hadn't.

Before I had the chance to say, 'blue is just fine', the older lady jumped in to reassure me that 'blue is a good color'. I wondered if she would have told me if I'd chosen a 'bad' color or if there were any bad colors, but I was too tired to hold any kind of conversation relating to a subject I'd been dealing with since lunch time earlier on in the day.

I placed my debit card on the desk for payment now that we'd agreed on the model and suitability of the color. I was invited to take a seat but just stood expecting the transaction not to take anymore than a minute or so. The younger lady pressed 'print' on the computer, the older one retrieved the printed copy of the document, scribbled something on it and passed it on to me to sign.

Six times! The procedure was repeated six times and every time I signed my name I wondered if it was just for the vacuum cleaner. I had never signed my name so many times for one transaction, not even the times I bought a car, let alone just to buy a household appliance. Finally, the papers were segmented and I was given copies of what I'd signed.

As I waited for the card to be charged, I saw the driver grab it off the desk I'd left it on with the two ladies and take it across the room. My shock was indescribable, only mitigated by the familiarity between the driver and me 'What now?', I wondered.

Not understanding Azerbaijani and depending on him to help, he had been instructed to take the card to a cubicle across the showroom for the payment transaction. Next thing I know, I'm being asked for my pin number.

'What?' I asked.

'The pin number,' he repeated.

He wanted me to scream my pin number across the room. In all fairness, there were no other customers except the three male attendants, the two females and now the man in the cubicle. That's what I call division of labor. Each receipt I'd signed was for each member of staff, possibly?

I offered to punch the numbers in but was told I had to say it out loud. I kept my voice low and said it to the driver in Russian who in turn screamed it out in Azerbaijani to the man in the cubicle at the top of his voice for all to hear.

I impatiently waited for the message on my phone to inform me how much I'd been charged and was very careful about successive transactions.

TrrrrrrrrrTrrrrrrrrrrrTrrrrrrrrrrrr came out the receipt from the machine. One more signature. And another. I was given my copy and they kept theirs. I was then free to leave the store with the brand new blue vacuum cleaner.

They were all smiles and congratulated me profusely on the purchase I'd made. I was wished good health to enjoy my vacuum cleaner as the two-year warranty was stamped and handed to me. I was invited to come again as I was leaving the store. It was certainly reassuring. I don't remember a time when I pronounced 'thank you' so many times.

Shortly after we drove off, the tall brown building loomed in sight. I realized how close the store was and happy it wouldn't be long till I finally got some rest from a long day's work and the ordeal of buying a dust-sucker as it is called in Russian.

When in doubt, ask. And I did, but it didn't help much. Eventually, I got myself there.

Soy Who?

Except for the insistence of a corn on the cob vendor that I try his wares, at a roadside market where we'd made a pit stop for my students to refill on junk food and to use the facilities, it had been a pretty smooth ride with a lot of singing and laughing, as I continuously fought the battle for the need to keep seat belts on.

Our hotel manager though was driving in the opposite direction and had contacted us on the way to inform us that we would be in good hands as all arrangements for our requests to be honored had been meticulously put in place before his departure. I did not envy him. We were on our way to breathe fresh mountain air, despite the forecast of rain throughout our stay, whereas he was on his way to breathe gas and oil fumes. 

We had just settled into the sumptuous hotel which would be our abode for the next two days in Quba after an uneventful 200-kilometer drive from Baku. The drive bordered the coast initially and then veered inland, as we passed spectacular rugged scenery we are usually deprived of in the city which does not even offer the shade of trees. The closer we got to our destination, the more dismal the weather looked but the fresher and cooler the air smelled. 

‘Could you please ask the waiter if they have soy milk?’I pleaded with one of my students.

‘What, Miss?’

‘Soy milk. Or soya milk’

‘What is that?’ 

It then dawned on me that if my worldly students had no clue what soy milk was, it was more than likely that the waiter wouldn’t either, though I hoped I’d be wrong. It also brought to light the reason for the blank stares anytime I was adventurous enough to ask for it. It hadn’t been the only place, but I kept hoping, especially that a place of that caliber, a five-star hotel, would be able to provide another variety of milk other than that of a cow's.

A verbal exchange ensued among the students which quickly gravitated to a digital exchange. Someone was quick to find the equivalent in Azerbaijani, but even before he approached the waiter to make my order, I knew I wouldn’t be getting a soy latte at this hotel either. 

I looked around the lobby admiring the faux Louis XIV furniture – plush red, black and blue velvet upholstering on seats you would sink in with pleasure after a long trip, fitted golden legs and arm rests; the heavily ornate chandelier sparkling all over, the marble floors, the floor to ceiling framed paintings of soft pastel tones... I sent a message to a friend in Paris saying I felt like I was walking in one of the halls of the Palais de Versailles, or not quite, but close enough. 

I anticipated the same ornateness in my room and eventually came back to my soy latte, which I thought they could easily have afforded to add to their stock. 

Foresight and caution were the compelling factors which led me to include a carton of the scarce beverage as I packed my bags hoping that my previous experience would not be repeated. The experience of my stay at this hotel in Quba was heightened by the opportunity of a latte with my own milk every time I ordered one. 

On another occasion, we had finally made it to the hotel on top of the mountain - another luxury hotel with contemporary décor, this time in Quballah, about 500 kilometers away from Baku. The dark wood and soft tones of the upholstery made the lobby a pleasant meeting area with its library of dark wood shelves occupied by coffee table books presenting Azerbaijan as the land of wonders, amid novels in various conditions of use donated or accidentally left by previous guests. 

My room faced the wooded, white mountains; so thick was the snow that the vegetation had no chance of rearing itself through it.

I had presented the kitchen staff with a carton of soy milk for a latte or two at breakfast. I couldn’t imagine anything more pleasant than a hot latte before a vigorous descent down the slopes. The first sip of the delicious latte I’d anticipated was a shock to my system. So as not to come across as fussy, again, I asked one of my colleagues to have a taste. She couldn’t agree with me more.

‘Disgusting!’ she blurted out. ‘What on earth is that supposed to be?’

‘A soy latte.’ I replied despondently.

‘It’s like drinking caramelized toffee,’ said another who ventured to have a sip as well.

The mug made the rounds with the unanimous verdict that it was undrinkable. There goes a whole mug wasted of the scarce beverage.

I called the waiter and asked for another one, imploring there be no sugar added whatsoever. My request was honored and I was presented with another one; a better brewed beverage which though not perfect, did not warrant any complaints. In the afternoon, while my friends indulged in the two for one drink offer, I ordered another of my very favorite and enjoyed it whole-heartedly.

The next morning, we moved our breakfast party outside to bask in the early morning rays melting the snow on the roofs and glistening on the partially visible trees. Time for another soy latte. My order was taken and I was certain it would be served the right way. My excitement grew as I saw the waiter approach, my soy latte on a silver tray propped on the palm of his left hand. His right one tucked behind him. Two steps away from me … till today I cannot tell whether it was his lack of experience, the slippery floor, or the fear he may have experienced from the extremely anticipating look on my face. It could have been all three as well. 

Whatever the case, two steps away from me, he slipped and all we saw was the mug and tray flipping in the air, landing precipitously on the ground and the precious beverage together with them both.

The waiter survived.

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.