Culinary Delight in Moscow

The menu was one of a kind - a wooden chopping board with a spoon and clip holding together, the intentionally dog-eared-I-presume, brown sheets listing the variety of meals and beverages available for degustation.

I ordered borsch, roasted beetroot and goat cheese salad, and pear strudel, all to be washed down with lipa leaves tea after a refreshing pear duchess [pronounced dyushess] with dried, poppy-seed covered bread snacks.

I had seen these minuscule white flowers blooming all over the city as the more favorable weather set in, but took no particular notice of it until a friend pointed it out to me on a trip outside of Moscow. Several ladies, plastic bag in hand, were filling these with the flowers attached to the budding leaves they plucked off the fast- bloomed trees after the long, longed-for defrost. "Lipa!" my friend remarked. "My grandmother used to make lipa tea all the time. Seeing these women reminds me of the pleasant aroma which filled the house when I visited her." The flowers are picked, dried and stored for use during the guaranteed, cold winter months. That was another item to add to the list of novelties I was experiencing in Russia, but had not been fortunate enough to taste till I could order it in a restaurant.

I took a few sips, actually gulps, of the chilled, sweet, carbonated soft drink which arrived first as I settled down to recover from the effects inflicted by the laborious task of finding Mari Vanna; a quaint, picturesque Russian cuisine restaurant in the heart of Moscow, not too far from Partriarch Ponds and the Tchaikovsky concert hall.

It had been one of those days in Moscow, with intermittent rain. And the restaurant had been one of those places - difficult to find. We had spent what seemed like endless hours, although it may have been only a few minutes, going round in circles looking for a sign signalling the name of the restaurant on top of an entrance we would walk through. But we were always at the wrong place. It helped that we were in the company of a Russian friend, so we didn't feel totally useless at finding a clearly stated address in this, at times, labyrinthine megalopolis.

We were in the right vicinity, in the right street, and at the right number, but saw nothing resembling an entrance to a restaurant. We asked on two occasions and were directed on both with the help of information provided by a sophisticated, hand-held communicating device - all to no avail, since neither got us there. Finally, we asked a man who had come out of a door for a smoke. After a long drawn puff, he startlingly informed us, "You are standing in front of her".

It took me a few seconds to recover from the shock, hoping he wasn't referring to himself - short, stooped under the awning, shielding himself from the pouring rain, cigarette in one hand, the other warming itself under his armpit. We looked up, and around, and still saw no sign. In the dark, we had missed the collection of old door plaques engraved with Russian last names and matching doorbells - their version of a sign; still no Mari Vanna sign in sight . There might have been about thirty to fifty of them. Would pressing any of the bells had led us to the right place? I could never find out as it didn't occur to me to try it.

Refreshed, rested and recovered from the ordeal, I made my way to the ladies room to wash my hands before tackling my meal. As I stepped into the restroom, I couldn't help but feel transported back into another epoch. I had been looking for signs of the bygone Soviet-era in different places unsuccessfully, as modernized Moscow aspires to be western, international, depriving me of the sights I hoped would represent and remind me of that legendary time in history so unique to this great country.

The top half of the walls of the small room were papered in what represented pages from newspapers and magazines from that nostalgic time I'd longed to experience. A wooden, wireless radio from which French melodies emanated sat perched on a small shelf on the left as you walked in. Wooden, were also the seat and toilet paper holder. The water closet was placed up high as its white-knobbed chain dangled to within easy reach. A few framed pictures and other colorful artifacts on the walls livened the little room. A grey wooden box on the wall held two current Russian daily newspapers. Fluffy, white face towels, nicely folded had been carefully piled in rows on shelves under the radio. A mirror in a wooden frame hung on the door, and a wooden bin affixed beneath the hand-wash basin provided for used towels looked more like a decorative, than functional piece of furniture. It was warm and squeaky clean in there, and oozed of the homey, snug feeling one gets from being wrapped in a familiar comforter on a cold, rainy, winter night. If they had taken such care decking the toilet, what wonders would they have done to the eating area itself?

I'd been previously informed that dining at Mari Vanna's was like having a meal in a Soviet apartment. It

looked more like pre-Soviet, bourgeois era decor to me, as I'd seen in more than one house museum such as Pushkin's in Arbat Street. On my way back to my table, I stopped every few steps to admire and take in the set-up which was simply breath-taking. A round table in a corner, which could be reserved for an intimate family meal of four, was set with beautifully hand-painted dishes which seemed to have been imported from Limoges, and crisply-starched, off-white, rectangular-folded napkins underneath beautiful, sparkling crystal, ready to be occupied. A row of old sewing machines lined on the window sill beside this table accentuated the warm, homey feeling in every square inch of the walk down memory lane in this small restaurant.

Most tables were occupied - some by couples of same or mixed genders having intimate conversations as they savored their meals. Extreme satisfaction deeply etched in their facial and bodily expressions. Others were occupied by groups of adults or families, some celebrating an event, others just refueling at the end of the day. Some tables were in the process of being vacated as others were being occupied. The restaurant staff didn't have an idle moment to spare.

I finally returned where my two co-diners waited patiently at the white-lacquered table covered with a beige table cloth, on seats upholstered in the fashion of the start of the previous century. There was very little room left on our table crammed with myriad utensils occupying their due space - the rest of my drink was waiting for me, the lipa leaves were brewing in the plain beige teapot sitting at one end, our three cups and saucers of the same set as the pot also occupied their space. A glass bowl of dried snacks from which three hands took turns sat majestically in the center. How would our dishes fit?

No sooner had I formulated the question, than the answer was provided in person. One of those deep bottom round hand-painted dishes was placed in front of me, and the borsch I'd ordered was ladled into it from a casserole. I waited impatiently for my friends to be served their chosen first courses before I started the appetizing soup. One had another kind of vegetable soup and the other had boiled potatoes with baked herring sprinkled with parsley served in a deep oval dish - all very Russian. I kindly declined to taste their choices and took my first spoonful - it tasted divine! After almost two years in Russia, it was probably my second try of this typical Russian dish. I voraciously savored every spoonful and left the dish dry, as did my friends who similarly enjoyed their orders.

We enjoyed our second courses and commented incessantly on how tasty it all was, how efficient the staff were, how nicely the restaurant was decorated, how homey it felt and how it actually felt as if Mari Vanna herself had cooked the meal we were having in the kitchen down the hall. The section we sat in had been furnished with transparent cupboards filled with crockery - dishes of all sizes, glasses, teapots, cups, saucers and other utensils as would be found in a family home, in addition to various table artifacts. On the opposite wall, a wooden frame held a flat screen TV we paid no attention to. It looked down onto us from a height as we sat busily talking under a big abat-jour shielding the lamp from which three elongated bulbs illuminated our table and all of its contents.

My dessert tasted just like I wanted it - fruity, not too sweet and healthy, accompanied by cup after cup of lipa leaves tea. As good as it tasted, and as much as I enjoyed it, there was no story behind it, contrary to my co-diner's "naked heart" as it was called in the Russian menu, but plain "pigeon's milk" in the English one.

As it was explained to us, "naked heart" is the name of a charity association founded by a Russian top model now married to a Swiss mogul. A percentage of the proceeds from consuming this dessert goes to this children's charity fund bearing the name Naked Heart. It was presented on a large, flat, hand-painted plate in the design of the others we'd eaten in, in the shape of a heart set in the midst of a strawberry syrup-drawn heart surrounded by an assortment of wild berries so common in Russia, so rare it other countries, and mint leaves.

It had been a wonderful evening after a not-so-easy quest to find the restaurant in the rain. All that difficulty was soon forgotten after the welcoming atmosphere we entered which played French and Russian folk music throughout our dinner. By the time we were done with our meal and ready to leave, any inconvenience we may have experienced was completely forgotten, with a great desire to return soon to try other dishes and enjoy the same warm atmosphere.

The bill was brought to us in an old ladies' coin purse which had us all ooing and aahing at the cuteness of the purse and the originality of the idea. As we placed our due in it and clipped it shut, I couldn't help but feel that we were rewarding and thanking Mari Vanna herself for the wonderful meal, homey setting, beautiful decor, and transporting me successfully to another time in history. I have dined in several other restaurants in Moscow and none have impressed me as much as Mari Vanna, in the quality of food-price ratio, as well as service. Leaving was more difficult than I'd expected but the thought of returning made it more bearable.

The fat, furry, fluffy, grey ball of a cat that stood immobile in its basket on a shelf looking like a lifeless part of the decor, petted by all as they came in, was finally curled up in the same basket sleeping. Were it not for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of grey fur, it would be completely unnoticeable as it blended in so well with the home bric-a-brac carefully placed on the various-sized shelves of the divider. But people noticed as they walked by, petted, caressed or kissed it on their way out as they did on their way in. Were it ever removed from that restaurant it would not survive, already used to the attention of scores of hands extended from different visitors.

Sad to leave, I produced the wooden number plate to the cloakroom assistant who located my coat and helped me put it on. We couldn't resist taking pictures of the strings of dried vegetables hung in the foyer and the bicycle over the door frame. A must-see-and-do in Moscow. Umbrella back in hand, off we went retracing our steps with a spring in our feet.

Wet, wet, wet!

For the past weeks, there has not been a single day when I have not used my umbrella at any time, and I cannot remember a time when it got unfurled on so many occasions within such a stretched period. According to a publication in an English language daily in Moscow, the weather in September 2013 has been recorded as the wettest in the last 130 years. It has certainly been relentless, to say the least.

Working indoors, I only endured the downpour on my way to and from work. The weekends, although miserable as well, were manageable, as we would decide on a place to spend time indoors, share a meal or a drink and then hurry back to the metro to retire to our respective abodes. We all complained about the dampness, the puddles, the rivers forming on the roads, cars speeding by splashing water on pedestrians, the wind blowing umbrellas out, the general lack of courtesy of pedestrians unwilling to move their umbrellas out of the way for others, getting soaked despite the umbrella, and the long list of inconveniences just went on.

That none of us had come to Moscow to savor the weather was a well-known fact - there was another draw, mostly the experience of living in a country that had been guarded behind the mythical iron curtain for a couple of decades short of a century, now opening its doors to almost anyone who wanted to visit. The Russians I know tend to complain more about the weather than I do, as such, I feel entitled to do so as well, and today I feel that I'm not complaining only about the endless precipitation which has shrouded Moscow in gloom, but also the little things which make life easier in other parts of the world, but which Moscow lacks, rendering it one of the most difficult cities in the developed world to exist in.

I say this from experience as I can compare it to living in places like New York, London, Paris, Madrid, Geneva, and a long list of other European and North American cities where this amount of rain, albeit noticeable, would not pose the challenges it does here. I admired the staunchness of the would-be visitors to the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts, which was not my destination, outside in the long line, in the rain that kept pounding their umbrellas, dripping around them, inevitably soaking them, pounding the pavement and doubtlessly wetting their feet. The Titian exhibition was worth seeing, but I didn't think I would have enjoyed it after enduring those conditions. My destination, however was to "Sheslivo" cafe to meet friends for a snack and coffee.

Sheltered indoors, savoring warm tea of exotic blends in nice company, I had no desire to leave until it was time for me to go back home. One of my friends though, decided to try another place. My protests and pleas about not sporting the right footwear, the distance to the next place, the adventure finding the place we were not sure about, and most of all, the unpleasant weather, fell on deaf ears. And so it was that we headed to Gorky Park to "Teplitsa" for dinner. Anywhere else in the developed world, we would step out, hail a cab, provide the address of our destination, and be driven there. Considering the short distance, it would not have been much. We would be dry, warm and cheerful. This, however is Moscow - a city which operates differently.

A past experience had scarred us profoundly, teaching us one of the many lessons we needed to learn in Moscow. Any parked car with the semblance of a taxi, we learned the hard way, was just a means to fleece the unsuspecting passenger. Not knowing how to get to a place and being in the city center, an available cab would seem to be the best option. The twelve-minute taxi ride in a "legitimate" taxi with a meter cost us 3500 rubles (over US $100.00) - an unforgettable experience.

We had approached the white Toyota Camry on Arbat Street, parked outside the metro station with a taxi sign on it and had had a simple conversation.

"Is this taxi free?"

"Where would you like to go?"

I provided the address and asked how long the ride would be. The man behind the wheel answered that it depended on traffic, which I thought was a reasonable answer.

"Is it far, though?" I insisted.

"No, it isn't very far."

We knew that, but decided to be sure. I then asked how much it would cost. He said it would be what the meter read, which made sense to me. I was not in the habit of hitching rides and negotiating the fare as is the custom here. I felt safer in booked taxis. On occasions when I have had to go to the airport, I have used the driver of a taxi company I know and trust, and always paid 1900 rubles - for a ride longer than an hour in either direction. For a short ride, and with a meter, I didn't expect to pay more than 500.

Where in the developed world would I think that the meter was just a ruse, and the taxi driver, if that is what he was, just a well-dressed thief? It never crossed my mind that the fare could be 3500 rubles - a sum I would pay to any of the airports outside Moscow and back. How could I ever have thought that? My protests and name-calling did not deter him from demanding his fare. He even offered to give me a receipt which I accepted to show to people who did not believe the story. The indignation I felt was next to no other I had previously experienced, because I knew I was being robbed and there was nothing I could do about it. Reporting it to the police would not help, and all I could do was promise myself that I would never allow it to happen ever again.

As a result of that experience, my suggestion, in jest, to catch a cab we saw parked outside, stepping out of "Sheslivo Cafe" did not go down well with my friends, knowing very well what the outcome would be. It was a short walk to the metro, which we would have ridden for a few stops and then a long walk through Gorky Park to "Teplitsa Restaurant" but we chose to do it all on foot. It would have been a nice, pleasant walk had it not been for the rain. Despite the rain, walking seemed to be the easiest way to get there - the ubiquitous Catch-22.

We made it to Gorky Park with soaked feet and arms, asking various people for directions, once we'd gone through the gates, to this restaurant that no one seemed to know about. A phone call to a friend provided us with further information.

"It's by the Olive Beach" where we were standing, but could not see it. There was no reason for me to moan about getting wet and feeling cold - we were all in the same boat. Oh, how I longed for a taxi, or a bus, but this is Moscow! We eventually found the place which turned out to be under renovation. We had asked the guard at the gate, who had directed us to go straight ahead, past the bridge and it would be around there. I would certainly have appreciated it if he had told us that it was closed for renovation. On the hand, all that tea at "Sheslivo" was making demands on my bladder, which I didn't think could endure the long walk back to any metro and to our next destination of choice, so we went into "Pelman," a dumpling place close by for my friends to have an appetizer, and for me to rest my feet clad in heels I had not planned to walk in. It was the right decision.

Rested and fed, we re-donned our wet coats, unfurled our umbrellas once again, and headed to the nearest metro from Gorky Park, striding over puddles and rivers to a place we knew would be open - "Aldebaran" where we'd been a few times. It was a short ride, just one stop, during which I was grateful to be sheltered.

Once again on the surface, the umbrella regained its significant position till we reached our destination. My friends ordered tomato soup and ravioli, but I felt I needed to reward myself for enduring the hardship of daily life in Moscow, especially today, and dined on dessert for all three courses - carrot cake, a sizeable, delicious blackcurrant macaroon, and melon and blackcurrant sorbet washed down with a glass of Kir Royal and French ginger coffee. I felt I had deserved every bite of it and the warm company of friends always makes the hardships easier to forget as we discussed various topics and laughed.

It had been a wet, cold, difficult trip which finally ended at Aldebaran, and it was time to face the same conditions back home. It was still raining when we got out. It is still raining as I look out, and the forecast for next week is rain everyday. By the end of September, the meteorologists may have to change their record statement to the wettest September in the history of Russia. It certainly seems to be the wettest, longest period I have endured anywhere.

Which Bykovo?

When we finally found the church, Our Lady of Vladimir (1789), I was overcome with a feeling of awe and disappointment simultaneously. It stood erect, beautifully restored in all its Neo-Gothic structure in an enclosed area of overgrown grass, surrounded by garbage of all kinds, and debris. I couldn't help feeling I had landed unexpectedly at a post-bombed site where this majestic symbol dating from the late 17^th century had survived.

A sleek black Mercedes decked with ribbons, flowers and gigantic, interlaced, gold wedding rings stood outside the gate prophesying a wedding. I wondered what it would be like to be dressed up in one’s finest on such a significant day, stepping over the garbage, choosing where to step, all decked up in an extremely expensive dress and matching high-heeled shoes. A bride could be seen coming out of one of the few houses scattered opposite the church – possibly a native of the village.

It had been an ordeal to get there so I was determined not to let the scenery, which turned out not to be as picture-perfect as I'd expected it to be, ruin my day and trip. On a very hot Saturday at the beginning of the summer, as people had started going to their dachas at weekends, I thought I’d make a cultural trip out of Moscow to this church I'd seen pictures of but knew little about. We made it to the train station just in time to make a run for the train which was about to close its doors, found a seat and settled in for the 50-minute ride.

It was a hot, noisy, uncomfortable affair. Once the train got out of the urban area though, the abundance of vegetation provided a bit of respite through the small windows. The noise however, never relented. The metal-on-metal screech from the train wheels on the rails was constant – so loud was it that the announcements for the next station were obliterated in the process. Fortunately, the platforms were visibly labeled, possibly as a precaution of the afore-mentioned situation, so we followed those and got off at the right station, or what we thought was the right station.

We asked for directions and followed them. The walk from the station took us through surroundings not representative of Europe in the least – open bags of garbage strewn around, empty bottles everywhere, muddy roads, pot-holed tarred roads…Teatralnaya Street was an unpaved back road with houses in disrepair. One such house was no different from the Adams' Family residence. It was just as spooky, as it looked lived-in and abandoned at the same time. My mouth was agape the whole time and I couldn't help wondering about the contrast between this place and other European towns and villages I'd seen all over. Were the people of a different race, I would easily have believed that I had been teleported to a place in Africa or somewhere in South East Asia. 

From the station at Bykovo, we could see some domes representative of a church although it did not look Gothic. We thought the town was in that direction and headed there. We were not surprised to find out that the church wasn't the one we were looking for – it would have been too easy. It still made for a nice photo session. The surroundings were well-kempt, with a beautiful war memorial where flowers had been deposited. A few ladies in scarves seemed to be guarding the area. We asked for directions to the one we were looking for and were directed to take a bus, ride for a certain amount of time and then ask for more directions after we got off. We asked if we weren't in Bykovo since we were being directed to another town altogether. We certainly were in Bykovo, but we needed to go to a different Bykovo. There was no telling whether it was the same town separated by other smaller ones, or whether they were different towns.

City-slickers as we were, in need of some exercise, we decided to forgo the bus and make our way there on foot. At a T, we saw the bus we had been advised to get on and decided to follow it. How hard can it be? Our walk took us through a market, a downtown area which reminded me of some of the small towns I’d seen in Kerala, in the south of India, and finally to an abandoned airport area fenced off amid high security with red signs and exclamation marks everywhere. We got the message. Unable to go further, we had to retrace our steps. At this point, we thought we had walked around the whole town. 

It was getting hot. We needed a drink and a bathroom and settled on finding one before trying for the church again. It was noon. We’d walked around for more than an hour and had no idea where to find this church despite the help available on all the modern gadgets in our possession.

We found a snack bar which provided us with all we needed. After the well-needed rest, we set off again, this time to get the bus. From the bus stop, we saw another church worthy of a visit and headed there. It really was worth the stop. It was a wooden structure ornamented with several domes, most of which were of the usual blue and gold design. The grounds were litter-free, and the church shone in all its glory. The letters XB were emblazoned at every entrance symbolizing Christ has risen. We walked around, took some pictures, admired its beautiful architecture and set off again on our quest. Two churches and a high security airport area down, but our goal seemed nowhere in sight.

Back at the bus stop, we realized we would have to wait for an hour in the heat and dirt. I suggested finding a taxi to end our misery. The driver of the first and only taxi we approached agreed to take us to our destination. His fare, which we'd arranged before settling in, made me suspicious, so I asked my friend to make sure he knew where we were going and how to get there. He assented eagerly pointing at the church we had just walked from which was literally a 10-second ride. Why he ever thought that two able-bodied people walking around would need a taxi for a distance of 50 meters is beyond me. Once it was clarified that we had just come from that church and were going to the Gothic church, he “realized his mistake” and said he couldn't take us there because his taxi was on order by another customer. I looked at the box of fresh, hot pizza he'd just placed on the passenger seat before starting the car and thought, “any means to make an easy buck.” 

Once again I was right – it would have been too easy. He did tell us though where to find a taxi. Eventually, we did, and this one charged us about the same fare as our pizza-ready previous driver. We ascertained he was taking us to the right place and hopped in. When we finally got to our destination, we realized that with our city-cockiness of not needing any means of transportation, we would not have made it before the end of the day, and even if we had taken the bus, it was still a long walk from the bus stop which the heat would have rendered very unpleasant. All the same, we had made it to the well-desired destination, and there it stood in all its glory. The initial shock worn off, I set off to explore, but not having a scarf and not willing to be disrespectful, I could only take a peek inside.

The façade is fitted with an extraordinary design of a curved, two-way staircase from the sides, meeting at the top entrance with turrets on each side. A walk around the manor church, as it is considered, reveals sculptures of possibly famous people carved into the stone walls. Columns supporting pyramid-like structures, arches big and small, windows which in the past may have been of stained-glass make up the sides of the church elevating it to its level of grandeur. A peek from the door revealed an altar with gold adornments and a very clean church with a few people lighting candles. Mass had probably ended given that it was past one when we got there. Away from the church stood a tall bell tower which would have shone more had its surrounding not been littered to the extent that they were.

After the wild goose chase which culminated in achieving my goal, I was satisfied with what I had seen. It is certainly worth a visit as an out of town trip to see a curiosity. It is certainly not a tourist attraction which is why it was difficult to find and possibly why no one thought the surroundings were worth the trouble keeping immaculate. All in all, it had been a good day out. We’d seen the church and it was time to go back to Moscow where my neighborhood, which I had never had anything nice to say about had all of a sudden taken on the appearance of 5^th Avenue.

It had been a long day and it was time to get back home. When the gypsy cab dropped us off at the station, we realized it wasn't where we had come in. A lot of the explanation from the driver as to why we were at this station got lost in the heat and my tiredness. I just needed to get back on the train to “civilization.” For the first time, unlike on other occasions, I was relieved to be back in Moscow and was thankful I was not one of the regular commuters on that train.

Of Summer and Dachas

They normally go together in Russia, and are eagerly looked forward to once the sun is out again towards the end of spring; the countryside, barbecuing, lounging on river banks or the lakeside, orchards, vegetable gardens, fresh produce, and generally good weather symbolizing a break from the harsh, long winters. The chosen destination this time was Kolomna – not to a dacha, but as if it were.

The article I’d read about the town rated it very highly. As a matter of fact, it is in competition with other towns for the Russia10 award with its Kremlin as an emblematic monument. It was established a few decades after Moscow had been, making them contemporaries. Boasting a well-kept Kremlin, the confluence of three rivers and easy access from Moscow, by car or public transport. The forecast announced not only rain, but thunderstorms. All the same, I decided to take a chance. I am not one of the fortunate ones with a dacha to go to, but that never stopped anyone from going on a day trip outside the city. 

It would be a nice way to spend Sunday, I thought to myself, and refuel me for the week of hard work ahead. And so it was that I talked a colleague into going with me to explore another one of Russia’s finest. We had decided to take a bus in and play the return by ear. The end of the southernmost tip of the purple line on the metro leads to the station from where the buses depart to Kolomna as well as a range of other destinations. We were early enough to make it for the 09.25, and all had gone smoothly until we decided on a visit to the ladies room before we embarked on the almost two-hour journey.

It stands to reason that people on a commute, or a long bus journey for that matter, might have the urge to relieve themselves, and facilities for those needs would be provided at the bus station. We were wrong. At times like this, I am happy when my travelling companion is Russian, so it doesn't sound as if I am making a judgment from a from a foreign perspective. No toilets at the bus station, or at any of the snack bars or restaurants in the vicinity either. A few blue and green stand-alone boxes with a 25-ruble charge were available for that - non-flushable toilets. I caught a whiff, to put it mildly, of the stench from about a few few feet away of the closed boxes - a play of the two hours ahead on the bus in my mind did not look bright.

The dark interior, ominous-looking bar we had avoided as we walked up and down both pavements was the only place left to try. Mustering confidence, we marched in and headed for the counter encased behind a glass wall. That should suggest something, in a bar. I confidently asked for a can of Red Bull. My request was not honored. The lady offered me something I didn't want instead. I then asked if there were any toilets - no need beating about the bush any more. She said they did, but wasn't sure if security would let us in. She then suggested we buy something, even if it was only juice. I gladly paid the equivalent of four dollars for the miniature, snack-size box of juice to use the facility. My travel companion went in first and came out with a look conveying a sense of foreboding. Either way, I had no choice. When I finally went in, the look I'd seen confirmed my suspicion, and not only because it was a hole to squat in. Done. At least, I could wash it all off my hands and relax on the trip to Kolomna.

The driver, the attendant, the passengers, all secured in their seats, we pulled out and hit the highway. And with that, the on-board movie; a Russian comedy about country dwellers raising and training cows, not bulls, to compete in a race, came on to keep us all quiet till our destination. It was a nice drive along roads flanked by fully-leafed trees which a few weeks ago were completely bare, covered in snow, and sometimes icicles. The further out we drove, the more peaceful it felt. It was definitely a cure to drain all the city built-up tension in the muscles, which living in Moscow definitely contributes to accumulating. I now have no doubt why Muscovites leave the city in droves on Friday.

The smooth ride through placid, pastoral scenery, past dachas, along rivers, over bridges connecting small towns, and the anticipation of discovering a new jewel would have been enough for me to ignore the movie had it not been for the loud, deafening, obstreperous snoring from the woman, no less, two seats behind. I had initially thought it was the man behind me. I turned back to say something only to find him wide awake, but the woman behind him had her head thrown back, mouth wide open, feeling at home. A cartoon picture would depict her with upper case ZZZZZZZZZs bursting out of her orifices. I saw the attendant walk up on two occasions during which there was a momentary lull in the snoring. I may be wrong, but that seemed to be her occupation on the bus as I saw her do nothing else except ask as where we were getting off. Our doubt as to which stop, since it was our first trip to Kolmna, did not in any way prompt her to offer any help. 

I sat, half enjoying the scenery with occasional glances at the screen, disturbed by the obnoxious snoring.

The wall of the big, brown brick fortress surrounded by a moat welcomed us into the city after about an hour and the half on the bus. The trip had taken shorter because there hadn't been any traffic. Inevitably, we got off at the wrong stop for the Kremlin, but being a small city, retracing our steps posed no difficulty. Walking on the main road, I spotted a few stalls in an alley and suggested we walk through. It turned out to be a market. A morning walk through stalls of colorful produce and fruit was what I needed to start the morning. I bought some grapes and cherries and was grateful I wasn't ripped off. The market stretched to the main road with a tram station where we made a loop back to where we’d started.  

Just then we needed to get out our umbrellas. Throughout the day, it spat and drizzled on and off, but it was never hard enough to seek shelter.

We stopped at a famous American fast food chain on the way to the Memorial Park to use a clean bathroom and have some coffee. As we walked through the city, I could not cease to be surprised by how clean it was. It was definitely cleaner than Moscow. It was also surprising not to see any of the fluff from poplar trees floating around getting in one’s eyes, nose and mouth, into rooms needing to be vacuumed and dusted more than regularly. In Moscow, it is inevitable to feel overwhelmed by fighting it off as these unwelcome members of nature invade the environment getting in your eyes or any possible open orifice. Not having to fight the fluff was certainly an added bonus to the trip.

We walked past Kolomna Hotel to the Memorial Park with well-kempt lawns as could be seen all over the city, monuments in memory of victims from the different wars and even to those who succumbed to the disaster of the Chernobyl nuclear plant in 1986. It was probably too early for families to come out for walks and kids to play. Aside from us, there was just another woman pushing a stroller along the very quiet and peaceful paths. The serenity would have been perfect were it not for a couple who had chosen a bench in this peaceful place to make up after what sounded like a serious row. The man’s pleadings echoed through the quiet park, “But do you love me? But do you really love? Well, then tell me you love me and you have forgiven me.” 

She seemed hesitant to do so and kept feeding him evasive messages. This song and dance went on throughout our walk. They were there when we got into the park and still were when we left.

We stopped by the gigantic monument to the Unknown Soldier in the form of a head with a hard hat on, raised on a long platform of concrete slabs with the eternal flame burning. A row of busts on columns, each with the name of a war hero and significant dates, lined another walkway. An orthodox church under renovation was also enclosed on the grounds, and of course Lenin with his right arm raised in salute to the people, all surrounded by healthy leafy trees. I could have sat there all day, but the Kremlin awaited.

The people of Kolomna hold their Soviet era in very high esteem as we saw on the walk back to the Kremlin.

We were received with a warm welcome of paintings and a photography exhibition. A permanent triptych shows Dimitry Donskoi, the Russian knight (1350-1389), leading his army on a beautiful white horse, people by the road in the countryside in Kolomna, through which he led his army, displaying their beloved icons, and the Battle of Kulikovo (1380) during which the Russians defeated the Mamai Hordes. Churches, a convent, statues to commemorate the patron saints of Russian literacy, Kiril and Mefodi, several restored buildings and the confluence of the rivers all make up the beauty of the Kremlin where I could have spent all day sitting on the benches in the clean, calm areas provided for recreation. 

Leaving Kolomna, its Kremlin and Memorial Park in exchange for the din and grime back in Moscow was a difficult choice, but alas, it had to be done. In order to enjoy more of what this tranquil, monument-filled city had to offer we chose to walk to the train station with enough time to get the 17 something back to Kazanskiy Vokzal.

It proved to be a very worthwhile, pleasant, relaxing walk, but once out of the center, the scenery was slightly little different, as is usually the case. The main thoroughfare is October Revolution Street from where the Kremlin’s remaining towers – Kolomenskaya, Granitovaya and Yamskaya are easily visible. We walked towards the station along streets with names like Leo Tolstoy, Veterinary and a few back alleys which looked nothing like the areas surrounding the memorial park and the Kremlin where we'd been. I got gawked at for looking different, people would draw their neighbor's attention to look at the “rarity” passing by. On more than one occasion my travel companion asked if I was comfortable walking in those neighborhoods. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked. 

Finally, we made it to the train station only to find out that the number 5 tram and number 1 bus which had passed us a few times were making their way there as well. I wouldn't have missed the back roads scenery for anything in the world.

We got on the noisy, suburban train after a short wait. On our way back to Moscow, the train passed by several of the places where I would rather be than on the train. There were woods with families sitting out enjoying the fresh air and cooler temperatures I'm sure the houses did not provide. Barbecues were up and running with hungry faces waiting for their chow. A very bucolic, serene and jovial atmosphere accompanied us on the ride till the train made a stop at Bykovo, snapping me out of my colorful, relaxing reverie – a story I’ll tell on another occasion. 

After I’d recovered from that memory, I managed to get myself back in the serene mood I wanted for the rest of the journey till Moscow. People got on and off the train. The closer we got to Moscow, the more cellphones were in use to contact loved-one about their imminent arrival, where they currently were on the rails, when and where to meet, how the day had gone… they couldn't wait to meet to let it all out. Finally we pulled in at the station, everybody rushed off as if someone had shouted “fire, fire!” and joining the never- decreasing hordes in Moscow, I made my way back to my apartment.

Victory Day Parade - 2013

It was quite an impressive display in Moscow's Red Square, but that was to be expected, and I'm sure it was similarly admirable in the other 22 cities of the country where the same ceremony was held, possibly on a smaller scale. I wouldn't have imagined an inferior show of such an important event in Moscow, considering the historical significance of the representation – the 68^th Anniversary of their defeat in World War II, most commonly referred to in Russia as the Great Patriotic War. For the past week lapels, breast pockets, car antennas, handles on ladies’ purses, as well as murses, and any other possible place they could be appended, have been adorned with orange and black-striped ribbons in commemoration of Victory Day.

It had been announced that military representatives from the United States and France would be joining the Russian Army in this very festive event, and going to Red Square to witness it first-hand had been on my mind. However, I chickened out at the last minute anticipating the crowds and, as one of my colleagues had earlier warned me, to avoid the drunken revelers. And so it was that I stayed home to watch the hour-long televised version which was every bit as good, and needless to say, more comfortable. Media sources stated that preparations for the event had started shortly after the end of the New Year holidays, around January, guaranteeing precision and perfection.

On another noter, the Hockey World Championship taking place jointly in Helsinki and Stockholm has been going on these days. Chances had it that Russia was playing Germany, giving way to a lot of interesting comments from my Russian colleagues. That Russia beat Germany in this tournament, 7-0 on May 5^th, scarcely a week ago did not help the German cause at all. Back at work on Monday May 6^th, after the long break, the water cooler conversation did not only cover the current, momentous athletic event, it went as far back as to the 1972 Cup that Canada had refused to give to the Soviet Union to take back home after losing in the finals. One of my Russian colleagues tells the story of how Canadian citizens, ashamed of what had happened, pitched in, had a trophy of identical dimensions and quality made, and sent it to the, at the time, Soviet team as an apology. Canadians defended their cause, as did Russians, both very vehemently by the coffee machine.  I listened fervently, but stayed away from the debate.

Before it started, footage of Tverskaya Street lined up with all the military vehicles which were to take part in the parade was shown, as well as Red Square, where the men who would be marching ceremoniously in a few minutes waited for orders with their musical instruments, weapons and flags held in white-gloved hands. The commentator informed the audience that 800 musicians and 11,000 participants would be marching in the parade through Red Square. A young soldier interviewed about his views and sentiments prior to the whole set up said it was a great event in which he had the honor to take part in. He also said, “the drive you feel is an incomparable experience” inviting the audience to enjoy the show. He was not wrong.

A few minutes to ten, the President and his Prime Minister arrived, shaking hands with military dignitaries before taking their seats in the stands. The commentator made an announcement, and at exactly ten o’clock as the clock on Spasskaya Tower in the Kremlin showed, it started to chime. After ten chimes, there was perfect silence and stillness for a few seconds in Red Square, and then the commentator announced the arrival of the parade commander and the minister of defense.  The troops were shown to make a left turn carrying their rifles in both hands, immediately after which two open top, black official cars moving in synchronicity made their appearance into Red Square, with the parade commander and the minister of defense on board, standing in salute. The parade commander greeted and congratulated the members of all the forces receiving three “hurrahs” in response from them. The greeting was repeated with land, sea and air forces. That done, he stepped out of the vehicle, walked up the stairs, took off his right glove, shook the President’s hand and informed him the parade was ready to begin.

The President in turn made a speech littered with words such as victory, defense, tragedy, life, loss, defeat, greatness, happiness, well-being, respect, prosperity, thanking all their grandfathers and fathers for their contribution to building their great nation into a strong Russia, and wished the circumstances of the events which led to this commemoration would not be repeated. He ended his speech with a “hurrah” to all, to which he received three thunderous “hurrahs” in response, resonating powerfully throughout Red Square. The speech and responses over, the Russian national anthem reverberated solemnly in Red Square as all listened quietly, respectfully.

The national anthem was followed by the military band which started playing a marching tune, horns started blaring and the parade of companies and battalions began. A small company carrying small plain, red flags as well as that of the Russian Federation inaugurated the march, and the band followed the car carrying the minister of defense as he saluted his subordinates. The formations filed by, rifles up, elbows at an angle, legs straight, raised and lowered in rhythm, on and off the cobble stones of Red Square.

The commentator was impressive. The effect of his deep, bass voice as he described the different participants marching by could be seen on the hairs on my arms. The soldiers were followed by military tanks, helicopter and airplane displays and smoke planes letting out colors symbolizing the flag of the Russian Federation – red, blue and white. Veterans with not enough room left on their uniforms for any more brass also marched by happily, and some in the stands had the honor of receiving bouquets of red carnations from the younger generation. Mr. President was clearly enjoying the show as he appeared on screen exchanging a chuckle with a military officer on his right. And he should be. The weather had cleared up for the event. Last year it had been pouring.

A few minutes before 11, the President left his seat, walked down the steps with the parade commander in tow onto the square to shake hands with a few chosen veterans. At exactly eleven o'clock, as the clock on the tower showed, there were 11 chimes which brought an end to the display on TV. I presumed people would start dispersing in Red Square and the throngs would make it to the metro stations which would eventually open, closed for the event. Parks will be filled with picnickers on this bright sunny day and the major arteries which had been cut off for rehearsals for several days will be open again for normal traffic, bringing an end to the holidays we've had in May – a total of five days in two weeks.

Last week, May 1^st was a holiday, celebrated with several May Day parades in different neighborhoods. Apartment buildings were decked in red, blue and white Russian Federation flags, and there were fireworks at night. The week before, I’d seen people selling willow branches for Palm Sunday. The sales had continued throughout the week, as had loaves of kulichi in the grocery stores – panettone in other places, to be consumed on Easter Sunday. Those three holidays and the weekend gave us all a very long, well-deserved break which many used to go abroad in search of sun, some still are. I had wanted to explore Russia but was put off by the cold, wet weather then. 

At 6.55 pm today, all TV channels tuned in to show the tomb of the Unknown Soldier where a speech was made in memory of all the departed, all our loved ones. After the speech, the anchor requested a minute of silence as the clock on the Kremlin Tower chimed seven times. Total silence after that, as the flame on the tomb of the unknow soldier burned vividly. "This is the evening memorial to the victims of our beloved nation." And that concluded the ceremony.

Cabbing it in Moscow

I looked out the window. The snow-covered ground was turning to mud, and slush in patches, as people walked in it. There was no way I could carry a twenty-kilogram suitcase through that. There seemed to be no indication of it relenting either, and even if it did, dragging a suitcase through all that to the metro, and on to the train station, to get on the airport express to Domodedovo, did not seem to be a viable option. Not to mention that it required changing lines along a long corridor, although it would be only two stops.

Moscow is crowded everywhere – above ground and underground. Given my choices, I had to bite the bullet to call a taxi. I shouted out to the one reliable cab driver I know in Moscow, who would surely get me to my destination in one piece, if only he isn't busy. My previous experiences with so-called cabs in Moscow, mostly gypsy, had prevented me from using their services, except in extreme cases. Even when I called a reputable taxi company, I was sent an unrecognizable car with a driver lacking, not only manners, but driving skills as well. My friend Marina, who is having a hard time passing her driving test, has assured me that many drivers in Moscow “buy” their license, without actually having taken the test, let alone attempted to pass it. It explained a lot of things that I saw on the roads, and some of the experiences I'd heard recounted by others.

My last airport transfer to Sheremetevo airport, in the north of Moscow, was not only an unforgettable experience, but also one I would rather not relive. I had used the services of a taxi company to book one for this purpose. Aware of the traffic problems in the city, I set off four and a half hours ahead of boarding time, expecting that, even if it took two hours to get to the airport, which it shouldn't, I would still have a whole hour to check in, and board. If only I had known… but what could I have done anyway?

At the agreed time, an unknown number showed up on my phone screen informing me that the taxi had arrived. However, when I looked around, there was no car which vaguely resembled one. As I waited by my suitcase, looking puzzled, a man in a big, green Taurus beckoned me. I approached and asked if he was the taxi driver. In response, he mentioned my name enquiringly. I may have expressed surprise, but thanked him for coming and made to carry my suitcase into the car. Unable to open the trunk from the inside, he had to come out to open it from the outside. I chose not to react to the scene I was confronted with, as he stepped out of the car - a morbidly obese man, in underwear and flip flops, namely, a singlet and boxers. And I will refrain from commenting on his personal hygiene.

No one could convince me that he was a professional taxi driver, or a professional anything, for that matter. Granted, it was a hot summer day, but which part of that justified walking out of your house in underwear? It would be my first experience as a passenger with a driver in underwear. Would anyone understand my complaint, or acknowledge it, if I chose to file one? In his soft voice, and with a kind smile, he offered to carry my suitcase and placed it in the trunk. He then proceeded to cross the whole city, finding his way around on non-stop chattering GPS, taking four hours to get me to my destination. Four long, unbearable, hot hours, during which not a single word was exchanged between us, until I just about had a coronary, when he decided to stop at a gas station. When I started to protest about missing my flight, he said he needed to get me change, and got out, once again in his under wear, into the store to change the note I’d given him. It wasn't a near death experience, but it was certainly one I would not like to retell.

That summer day, the roads were clear, and it took four hours. Today, it is snowing. The roads are slippery, slushy, and muddy. It is the middle of the day, and getting close to rush hour. I could not afford to take that chance again, so with a prayer, I called Pavel, hoping he could squeeze me in his tight schedule to drive me to the train station. He was punctual, as I’d expected, so we started our less than 10-kilometer drive, which was literally two metro stops from my house, at 14.20, the stipulated time. As we turned the corner to go round the block, because it was impossible to turn left, I calculated that the journey would take about 15 minutes, twenty, tops. After twenty minutes, I was still sitting in the car, chatting leisurely to Pavel. We hadn't even made it to the entrance of that first metro station yet. Moscow, oh Moskva!

The poor man was mortified when I’d expressed my idea of travelling on the metro to him. I had assumed that he was sympathetic because of the obvious difficulty of carrying my suitcase up and down the stairs and escalators, in my frail state of femininity, and subsequently dragging the heavy thing along long corridors, in the midst of hundreds of people walking at various paces, in the attempt to avoid the usual pushing and shoving, or hindering them from walking comfortably, as my luggage would be in their way. To my dismay, he was rather concerned for me because of the color of my skin, and the reaction it may attract from certain people. I laughed and reassured him of my frequent metro trips during which there had never been an incident. It was his turn to be shocked. He had heard many stories about people of different skin color being attacked just for that reason, and was convinced that it was dangerous for someone like me to use that means of transportation. I reassured him, saying that I had heard those stories too, and had not doubted them, but had never been a victim to any of those incidents. Yes, I had heard a slur here or there, once or twice, but had chosen to ignore it.

A few minutes on, we had managed to make some headway, but we were nowhere close to my destination. It was a parking lot, with the vehicles making progress inch by inch. It reminded me of the taxi I rode in once, with a driver who did not hesitate to climb onto the sidewalk to make his way to the head of the line, as he sped on with the car at an angle, trying to impress me with his skills, or lack of them. I adopted the usual Russian attitude of non-reaction to anything, however unusual, uncomfortable, or untoward it may be.

   

Our conversation had moved on from racial problems, to chocolate - different kinds of chocolate, and chocolate factories. He told me about his tour of the Hershey chocolate factory in Pennsylvania while on a visit in the US, drawing a comparison with a tour at the Red October chocolate factory, which used to be in downtown Moscow, near the Kremlin. The factory has since been moved out of the legendary, red brick building, another emblem in Moscow, now converted into a block of apartments, art galleries, coffee shops and a trendy place to hang out. The watch on my wrist read 14.45.

On the tour at the Red October chocolate factory, they were given white coats and chefs’ hats to dress in. They had participated in the manufacturing process, had had a taste of it, and at the end of the tour had received gifts in the form of three kilograms of chocolate. At Hershey, they were shown the process which they watched from a distance, and at the end of the tour, there was a gift shop where they could spend some money to get a taste of the chocolate they had seen made. Someone from the left lane had tried to cut in front of him, forcing him to accelerate and brake abruptly. My heart skipped a beat. We were still moving at a turtle's pace, and the train station was nowhere in sight. 

Our conversation moved on to ice cream. Pavel had worked at an ice cream factory when he was a young man, in 1984. He described the process and the quality of the products in detail. Russia is a well-known land of dairy; proof of which can be witnessed on the shelves in the produkti shops everywhere. Not an ice cream eater, I could not give him my opinion. He mentioned the two kinds of ice cream made at the time. One was the ordinary, no frills, dully-packaged, mass-produced version, lacking in variety for the local consumer. The other, the high quality, exquisite-tasting, rich, creamy product, boasting a variety of flavors in premium packaging, that was exported; one of the recipients of the said exported product being Elisabeth II, the current resident at Buckingham Palace. Shocked, is an understatement to describe my reaction.

I could, however, give him my opinion on chocolate, and dark chocolate at that, which is what I enjoy. I admitted to him that, as sensitive as I am to allergic reactions caused by chocolate manufactured in different companies, I have never suffered any, after eating Russian brands of dark chocolate. We concurred on the high quality of the products, and the purity of their ingredients, absence of preservatives, additives and other artificial substances. Our conversation progressed faster than the drive. Luckily, in the distance, I could finally see a big, white building looming in, with the letters of the name of the train station, usually lit at night. Unfortunately, it was on the left side, and we were driving on the right side. There was no left turn, so we would have to drive past it, all the way to the end of the road, wherever it ended, make a U-turn and then come back down. It was 15.10.

He asked me where I was flying to. Madrid, I answered, and asked him in turn if he would be going anywhere for the New Year celebrations. He said he would be staying in Moscow, so I inquired inquisitively about the Russian tradition of welcoming the New Year. In Spain, the chimes of the last 12 seconds prompt people to eat a grape at the sound of every chime. In addition to making sure that they are wearing red underwear, the real experts are able to fill their mouths, eat and swallow all twelve grapes in time to yell out “Feliz Ano Nuevo” at the turn of the year, hug and kiss as they bestow wishes on one another for a Prosperous New Year.

We were discussing the high prices of certain products at this time of year, as we inched ahead to make the U-turn. I informed him elaborately about the nicely packaged 12 grapes for the special occasion in Spain, as well as the favored dishes of seafood and roast. In Madrid many congregate at La Puerta del Sol for the event. Do people go to Red Square for this event? Apparently, not. Red Square is cordoned off and guarded in a state of heightened security, where people are not allowed in the vicinity with bags, or bottles of drinks of any kind. Where do they meet then? Nowhere. It is too cold. And I can understand that.

Most Russians, he said, stay at home to entertain family and friends, and he proceeded to describe a special Russian tradition to me. Wishes are written on pieces of paper, and burned. The burned pieces of paper are dropped into champagne flutes, into which champagne is served. I asked surprisingly if he was sure it wasn't vodka. He smiled and replied that for celebrations, it is definitely champagne – Russian champagne. After welcoming the New Year, and clinking their glasses containing champagne and burned pieces of paper, the interesting mixture is drained in a few gulps, after which bear hugs are exchanged as a sign of love, and best wishes for the New Year are exchanged. The illuminated green clock on the dashboard read 15.20.

We had made it past the train station, to the end of the road for the U-turn, as we were discussing how expensive Moscow was, and what the possible reasons may be. Clothes and shoes purchased online, with delivery charges, are still 50 per cent cheaper than buying the same clothes in a shop in Moscow. Restaurants of the same category, with bad service, are considerably pricier than in other European cities, or in the US, with more pleasant staff. Almost everything seemed to have a higher price tag in Moscow than in other cities. Why, I asked, was that so? We discussed the C-word in detail, and how all of us, Moscovites, as well as those beyond, were paying the price for this.

We had made it to the train station. Just one last effort. If only the guard would loosen the chain for Pavel to drive through, so I could be dropped off at the entrance, then the relatively long, interestingly short, 30-dollar drive, which Pavel seemed to have earned, considering the amount of work that had gone into the service provided, would all have been worth it. It was. Eventually. As I was dropped off at the entrance as close as possible to the trains. I paid my fare, thanked Pavel, and carried my suitcase, treading carefully in the slush and mud. It was 15.25

In the year that I have lived in Moscow, I have not had the privilege of hailing a cab in the street. I have, however, paid fares to ride in a Range Rover, a Mini Cooper, an Escalade, a Camry, and on other occasions, ordinary, small, yellow cars, bearing the letters “taxi” on them. Yet, there is only one driver whose number I have retained for further services.

A lot of fuss was made recently, when Maria Golub, a prolific, 54-year old Russian actress, met her death tragically; victim of a hit-and-run, as she was riding in a gypsy cab. There was a lot of talk in the media about the need to regulate the taxi system in the city, and in the country as a whole. However, I am sure I am not the only one who has doubts about these new laws, and when or if, they will be implemented. This is just one of Moscow’s many woes, as I take pleasure in discovering all the other good things the city has to offer.

I can at least say that, my last taxi ride in Moscow, in 2012, ended on a very nice note. It was the first time I'd had a meaningful conversation with a taxi driver, during a ride which did not feel as if it would end in the morgue. As I headed to the train waiting on the tracks at Paveletsky Vokzal, on my way to Domodedovo, and eventually to Barajas airport, in anticipation of bidding farewell to 2012 in Madrid with friends, and welcoming the New Year in Bilbao, I looked forward to seeing what 2013 would hold in Moscow when I returned after my vacation.

Of Boots and Wine in Suzdal

We met at 7.30 a.m., at Shyolkovskaya metro station, with easy access to the bus terminal, to embark on the four-hour, 200 km trip to Suzdal. It was bitterly cold, but a trip outside Moscow for some fresh air was urgently warranted. As is usually the case in Russia, very little is straight forward. And when Russians say so, I feel I can freely join in the moaning as well. We managed to get the tickets for the trip, eventually found the right bus and got in line, cold – the famous lines in Russia, even in 2012.

As one of the Golden Ring cities, it has a special appeal to visitors, with its Kremlin, countless churches, monastery, monuments, beautiful scenery, serenity and historic significance. It had all we needed for a change of scenery from Moscow, as well as the opportunity to commune with nature. Spring, in Russia, however, is just a calendar reference. Anyone who errs in taking it for what it should represent, or what it should feel like, would be deeply disappointed. In March, the temperatures still lie below freezing. It was less disheartening though, to know that even the Russians, who should be used to it, looked miserably cold. As such, I felt free to complain as well, even if it changed nothing.

Finally on the bus, two foreign-looking, Caucasian women who had initially approached us in line, had compared their tickets to ours, to ascertain they were getting on the right bus, took the two seats in front of us. The bus filled up, the doors closed and we were soon on our way. I couldn't help but notice how they tore at, and devoured dry bread from a plastic bag. I wondered why they shared nothing except an occasional comment here and there. Who were they? What they were doing in Russia, and why were they eating dry bread? It was obvious why they were going to Suzdal - sightseeing. I needn't have bothered surmising. It all became clearer, as it always does in most travel experiences, even if you don’t ask for it.

The bus stopped at a few places on the way, but the first major town was Vladimir; the ancient capital of Russia, before Moscow was granted this honor. The two women, dry bread, plastic bag, little to no conversation … headed out of the bus when it stopped in Vladimir. I was wrong. They weren't going to Suzdal after all. A few seconds later, here they were, back on the bus to ask us if we weren't getting off. In all amusement and amazement, we answered in the negative. Then they asked if we knew if they could use their ticket to continue to Suzdal. Well, how would we know? The next thing I know, they are back on the bus, and in the seats they had vacated scarcely a few minutes earlier, apparently to continue on to Suzdal.

At our destination, and off the bus, the three of us stopped to consult our map. To my dismay, the two women approached us again, surprised that we didn't know where we were going, and asked what we were planning to do. That is taking a few liberties, I thought.

   

The older one of the two commented in a very disappointed way, “We were following you because we thought you knew what you were doing. We took one look at Vladimir and realized it wasn't worth a visit and since you didn't get off, we assumed Suzdal would be better, as you were headed there”. I disagreed with her opinion about Vladimir, but did not voice mine, as I simultaneously exchanged looks with my companions, Nadia and Nastya, at a loss for words. A gentleman passing by kindly informed us that the town center was only a kilometer away. We did away with the map, and headed there on foot, prompting the other two to fall in stride with us. I consoled myself thinking it was all part of the travel experience.

Nadia, Nastya and I walked together, but I was lagging behind taking pictures. The serene, clean, snow-covered country houses, with their unique window frames, the numerous multi-domed churches, the all-time famous produkti shops, as well as quaint, little souvenir shops were an invitation to click away and not miss a single image. Nadia walked at the same pace as me. The mesmerizing winter scenery of this medieval town captured our attention so much, we had forgotten how cold it was. We passed a shallow depression in the ground where children practiced tobogganing. With no hesitation whatsoever, Nadia ran and jumped in, sat flat on her behind and started sliding. Hands up in the air, screaming like an excited little girl would, I captured several moments of this happy event. She came back up exhausted, warmed up from the exercise and energized as we chatted and walked toward the town center.

Somehow Nastya had ended up in a seemingly, lively conversation with the younger of the two women, whose names I never found out. Suddenly, I heard Nastya say out loud, “Cynthia speaks French.” No sooner had the phrase come out of her mouth, than this young lady somehow appeared by my side, speaking to me in French and leaving Nastya free. Nadia, who did not speak French, left me to join Nastya as they walked ahead, leaving me behind to hold a conversation I was not interested in - talk about passing the buck. After the stranger had gotten over her surprise of meeting someone she could speak to in her native language, she was ecstatic about the opportunity to unload her string of endless, woeful experiences in Russia. She then wanted to know, if we would be staying overnight in Suzdal. No, we were just there for the day. “Would that be enough to see everything?” she inquired. “It is apparently a very big place with lots to see.” I agreed with her.

“Well, we live here so can always come back, and we were just out for the day.” She wasn't happy to hear about our overnight arrangements. This was turning into a very long kilometer, and a very cold one at that. We walked on past beautiful scenery of nature which I pointed out, but she was not interested. A long, cold walk, I reiterated to myself.

She explained, without my asking, that she had always been passionate about the Russian language and had always wanted to learn to speak it. As a result, everyone had told her that the only way to learn was to come to the country, which she had finally done. I was happy for her, that she had managed to accomplish such a challenging feat. However, I was surprised that she wasn't overjoyed that she couldn't find anyone who spoke French or English, forcing her to speak Russian.

She complained incessantly about how hard it was to find people to speak to in Russia, in a language other than Russian, which to me seemed to defeat the purpose of her stay, but, to each his own. I then asked her if she was studying. She said she wasn't, and was just trying to learn on her own by meeting and speaking to people. I was puzzled, as something failed to add up here, but I kept my thoughts to myself. In the time that I'd seen her, all she had wanted to do was to be with people who spoke English or French. At the station in Moscow, I hadn't seen her approach the Russians to ask about the destination of the bus, thus practicing to achieve her goal. I kept my doubts about her progress to myself. She volunteered more information about her life in Russia which I summed up in a few words. She had completed her first month's stay in Moscow out of the three she'd come for, expecting to return home speaking fluent Russian and having visited several places in the country. 

What I had anticipated as a short walk at a brisk pace, had turned into a long, cold walk to civilization, where I longed to get a warm drink. It had become endless, and was getting unbearable. The pretty scenery wasn't doing it for me anymore. My friends had left me behind with a desperate chatter-box and quite frankly, I had no interest whatsoever in getting into my personal theories about language-learning or my personal language-learning experience, which she was interested in, when she found out about my fluency in Russian. It was hard enough to open my mouth to articulate sensible words. She may have said a few more things or complained some more, but I don't remember. It was too cold to be engaged in a conversation which required too much physical and mental effort in temperatures of -16.

She mentioned that the lady she was with was her room-mate who had also come to Russia from England to learn Russian. She was also interested in travelling so they'd decided to do it together, since it was always better to travel in company. I seconded that, although I have not always been fortunate in that domain. I heard nothing about their studies or learning strategies and didn't ask. She had no qualms about abandoning her travel companion, and mentioned she only needed to find the youth hostel where they'd be staying. She also hoped we wouldn't mind having a French girl in our company. Really??????? Just like that!!!!!!! Fortunately, we made it to the main town square, where there was a burgeoning market scene, before I nearly lost it. Her friend suddenly appeared. “Oh” I said, “there are my friends. We need to find a place for coffee and a bathroom. See you later.”

That settled, I rejoined my two friends to walk around the market to see the colorful arts and crafts on display, at the different stalls manned mostly by sturdy women in multi-layered clothing and footwear to keep warm. I wondered how they did it. I was moving around and freezing. My fingers were so numb it didn't feel like I was wearing ski gloves. My lips and cheeks were so frozen I could barely articulate any words, smile or laugh, for that matter. It took some courage to walk around the market and admire what was for sale - scarves, toys, mugs and all sorts of trinkets. What I had taken for Christmas stockings were actually winter boots. They were so nicely decorated, and I had never seen them on anyone's feet in Moscow. I commented on the extension of the sales of Christmas merchandise, since we were in March, or the excessive earliness for Christmas preparations. In Quebec City, I had seen Christmas decorations on sale in August, so I assumed it might be the same custom. My observation sent my friends into hysterics, as they explained that they are boots that people actually wear. I’d learned something new and then saw a few people wearing them in Suzdal. My friends were surprised that I thought they were only decorative.

When it was too cold for comfort we went into a coffee shop called “Salmon and Coffee”. It didn't look very appealing from the outside, but turned out to be beautifully decorated inside with comfortable chairs, and armchairs upholstered in soft pink and white tones. There were intimate nooks with tables set for small groups, and the main floor had individual tables which could be put together or separated as needed. We settled at one of those, and welcomed the warmth and comfort. I had to content myself with some English breakfast tea since they didn't have what I’d been looking forward to trying - honey wine. Trust the Russians to come up with something like this. Grapes can't be grown in this weather, but they seem to have lots of honey, so they make wine from it. We left “Salmon and Coffee” to continue exploring the city. My lips and cheeks had finally thawed, making laughing in the cold a pleasant possibility.

The atmosphere was very lively, with small, open air markets in different areas of the town. I bought a pair of goat’s hair mittens since mine were not doing a good job of keeping my fingers warm. Nastya and Nadia both bought shawls. I also got some miniature shoes for my collection. We visited several churches, the monastery, saw different monuments and enjoyed walking around. The air was certainly fresher. There was no noise, the snow was clean and fresh. It was relaxing despite the cold, and we took tons of pictures.

After a couple of hours walking around, we needed to make a pit stop for coffee. We found a place in a picturesque hotel complex which had been done-up very nicely, but was closed to guests for a celebration of some sort. We found another restaurant, also very nicely done up where I had my honey wine, at last. It tasted like honey, and it was certainly mildly alcoholic. On our way out, we passed another market where a babushka was hawking home-made honey wine. She offered me a glass to try, explained the process and asked me to accompany her to her home if I didn't believe it. I didn't need to. We each bought two bottles as a souvenir from Suzdal, and I had my picture taken with her.

Our day, in a nut shell sums up what Suzdal is about. A laid-back town for relaxation, with pretty tourist attractions - churches and markets. We hailed a taxi the Russian way. You just stand by the roadside. A car stops, just any car. You mention your destination, negotiate a price and off you go. I left that transaction to my Russian friends as they negotiated to get us to the bus terminal, if you could call it that, for a hundred rubles. Our bus was leaving just as we were pulling in. We were lucky it stopped for us, and had to hurry to get on… terrible mistake. Never rush on the streets in Russia in cold weather. The streets are frozen and you never know where you’re stepping, or maybe they do. We were all running, but I fell. I managed to scramble up and walk, under the assumption that I hadn't broken anything. I just hoped the unbearable, intense pain would be from a bruise instead of any other serious injury.

Off we went towards Vladimir, in the company of a very motley crew, on a very Soviet-type and era bus, which on several occasions sounded like it was going to leave us stranded. But we eventually made it there in one piece. Although the price on the tickets for the bus to Moscow from Vladimir stated 68 rubles, we paid 300 rubles each. We chose not to question it, got on the bus and hoped for a safe arrival in Moscow on the frozen roads. The highway, if that is what it is, has only two lanes, and the speed limit is 70. At that speed, you hope the seats on the bus are comfortable. I could never see the speedometer to find out if the driver was adhering to the limit or not.

Anything was possible, since he had blatantly chosen to ignore the “no smoking” signs all over the bus, and smoked happily throughout the trip, when he wasn't on his cell phone, or doing both, or all three. I'd suggested to Nastya to say something to him. Her response was that  the last time she had tried to say something to a driver, he actually threatened to throw her off the bus. That taught me to shut it. Our stop halfway through the trip, which he had specified would be 7 minutes, turned into a twenty-minute wait, with the door open and us freezing inside. We'd actually believed the stop would be seven minutes and hadn't ventured out in case he left without us, given his attitude. I commented on the seven minutes when he returned, which he ignored as he lit another cigarette. It was a slow trip to Moscow. When we finally got to the MKAD, the Moscow Ring Road, the speed limit increased to 100, but with the traffic, it didn't make a difference.

Almost ten months after the fall, I am still in pain, but we had all had a great day. We'd laughed a great deal and managed to relax, and we look forward to going back to see what we'd missed.