Four days and five time zones later we arrive in the Siberian city of Irkutsk. Much to my surprise I’m a little ambivalent about disembarking the train. As I step out into the cold and onto the platform, I’m acutely aware of the people, the noise, the bigness of the world around me. Luckily, we’re bypassing the bustle of Irkutsk today and getting right on a bus and heading about two hours out of the city to the small town of Listvyanka.
It is early morning and our group is quiet as the bus travels along a narrow road surrounded by dense birch forests on either side. I imagine Baba Yaga - a witch from Old Russian folklore – could be living in those deep, mysterious woods in her famed hut that moves on chicken legs.
Taking the plunge
Undeniably the biggest draw of Listvyanka is Lake Baikal, the world’s oldest and deepest freshwater lake. Although barely noticeable on a map, Lake Baikal is enormous – more of a sea than a lake – and contains 20% of the world’s unfrozen fresh water. It is also home to several indigenous species including the world’s only freshwater seal, the nerpa seal (this isn’t particularly relevant to this blog, I just love seals).
A few of us stroll through the open air market which is mostly full of trinkets and dried omul (Baikal’s signature fish), but the real excitement today is about who is getting in the lake. Jumping into Lake Baikal is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Its healing waters are said to be a kind of fountain of youth and I suppose my inner romantic wants to believe the act would be somehow baptismal. After all, am I really going to travel thousands of miles in part to see an allegedly mystical lake and not get in it? No. That would be stupid.
As we approach the shore in the already freezing weather and start to strip down to our bathing suits I begin to rethink what qualifies as “stupid.” Even so, I always keep my promises to myself (it’s one of my favorite things about me) so into the lake I must go. Scott, Sabrina, and I wade into the water, take a quick dunk, and hurry back to shore where we frantically begin to pile our layers of clothing back on. I think of great literary figures who transcend the mental constraints of their old life after a water immersion – Fahrenheit 451’s Montag, The Awakening’s Edna… the list is endless. So far the only thing I know with any stunning clarity is that I’m effing COLD. Armed with this not-so-profound knowledge I hightail it back to our lodging and figure if I’m no more enlightened than when I jumped into the lake, I’m still ahead of most people I know and that’s good enough for me! Maybe my “new life” will start when I warm up…
I Get Spanked
In Listvyanka we have a homestay with a gentleman named Nikolai (yes, another one!) and his wife. After our almost-arctic plunge we make our way back to the house. Nikolai does not speak much English but he is extremely friendly and animated so we usually get the gist of what he’s trying to convey. His home is, in short, heaven - impeccably decorated, warm and cozy, and has a shower (something I haven’t seen in almost five days)!
Before dinner Nikolai is treating us to a quintessential Russian experience: a banya. Through a series of exaggerated gestures Nikolai – clad in a wool felt sauna hat and light colored speedo - explains the process. Our group begins by squeezing into the sauna and one by one people step out to escape the heat. With just Scott and I left, Nikolai begins phase two which involves me lying on my stomach on the sauna bench while he hits me with birch branches. After a moment or two he asks if “it’s good” and I say, “da” (yes). A menacing laugh escapes his lips and immediately after I feel a big THWACK as the birch branch hits my bum. The beating continues for a few minutes.
Let me tell you, nothing will make you evaluate your choices in life like lying face down wearing a sauna hat and a bikini while a small Russian man in a speedo spanks you with tree branches. Why did this trip seem so necessary to my human experience? Why couldn’t I just buy property or have a baby like everyone else?
My thoughts are interrupted as Nikolai hurries Scott and I out of the sauna and instructs us to jump into the pool on the porch (the careful reader will note this is my second icy plunge of the day). Afterwards, we sit outside in our bathing suits on a nearby bench admiring the surrounding forest - Sabrina’s earlier comment rings in my head, “It’s like a Bob Ross painting! Look at all those happy trees!”
I feel happy too. Happy in this small, silly moment thousands of miles from home.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Slutty American Girls (And Other Thoughts On America)
You’re probably anxious to get to Irkutsk and the charming lake town of Listvyanka, dear Reader, but I assure you there is more excitement to be had on the train. A Trans-Siberian trek is very much about the journey rather than the destination so let’s sit back and enjoy some more down time…
The girls and I are sitting quietly on the bottom bunks and I can’t seem to focus on my book, my thoughts and gaze are drawn to the landscape beyond our cabin window. Wide open fields are interrupted by upstarts of small villages – some of them full of quaint, charming Russian homes and gardens while others are overwhelmed with large, dilapidated tenements from the Communist era.
Some of the tenements look deserted until I notice the occasional potted plant in a broken window or laundry on a line. This isn’t uncommon in Siberia where many communities are simply dying as younger generations forsake their homes in search of work in the cities. Perhaps it’s just my western mindset, but I find it surprising that these buildings are not torn down, not repurposed, not memorialized in any way – they are abandoned with a shrug of the shoulders, left behind for the siren song of work and a future elsewhere.
I glance at my cabin mates and wonder where their thoughts have wandered.
“And the heart is hard to translate, It has a language of its own…” Florence + the Machine plays in the background. “It talks in tongues and quiet sighs, And prayers and proclamations…”
Making An International Impression
Olga wanders into our cabin to chat and, as it so often does when women are together, the conversation turns to men. She says something about how women often cry after “going with” a guy and the flip American in me retorts, “If you cry he’s definitely doing something wro-“…I cut myself off abruptly realizing I’m not in Boston anymore - this might be a thoughtful cross-cultural conversation about two souls becoming one. I stop fiddling with my backpack and sit next to her, my active listening fully engaged.
“Russian girls, they go out for drinks and then they go with some guy and say ‘oh hee hee! This is fun!’ but then, the next day, the girls cryyyy! Russian girls try to be like American girls but they can’t. Because they are Russian.”
I laugh. “Well, I have news for you: American girls can’t be American girls. Mostly they pretend to have fun.”
Olga eyes me carefully for a moment.
“I don’t understand,“ she muses aloud. “People who do this, they are empty inside and are only trying to make themselves feel better.”
I don’t disagree but I tread carefully in conversations like these, not knowing my new friend’s background and what (or who) we are actually talking about.
After a moment I say, “I think you should only… go with… people who make you feel loved and safe. And never let anyone else tell you how to have fun.”
Olga seems to approve of this response.
For the remainder of the trip we tease her about calling us slutty American girls. I mean, technically she didn’t - but she so did! There you have it ladies, in case you were wondering, the world thinks we’re a bunch of free-loving sluts.
All kidding aside, it is interesting to hear other countries’ impressions of the United States. The “frisky American girls” theory is one I have heard in my travels before, but I have also heard we think we are above international law. I have heard we are a greedy society, boastful and too proud, young and eager to make our presence known. I have listened as people who have never been to the United States rave about it being the best country in the world – which always makes me feel a little bit sad. Sometimes someone will ask a question about the U.S. and I feel the pressure of speaking on behalf of my entire country (even for those uber-conservative square states in the middle).
I pause for a minute thinking about the illusion of fun perpetuated by these abstract Slutty American Girls. I wonder if perhaps there isn’t also a Great Gatsby-esque quality to our grand American dream as well. How accessible is this dream to the average American? Where are we excelling? And where do we need to improve?
These are big questions for a girl on vacation and I decide to make some tea. As I approach the samovar I see OCD Provodnitsa is blocking the hallway as she folds laundry. I make a huge point of rolling my eyes and acting annoyed – not because I actually mind waiting for her to move, I just want to feel in on the haughty, grumpy joke. She looks at me stone-faced and lets out a long, slow sigh. I’ve managed to disappoint her again.
Brace yourself, dear Reader. Next time we actually get somewhere... the beautiful Lake Baikal!
The girls and I are sitting quietly on the bottom bunks and I can’t seem to focus on my book, my thoughts and gaze are drawn to the landscape beyond our cabin window. Wide open fields are interrupted by upstarts of small villages – some of them full of quaint, charming Russian homes and gardens while others are overwhelmed with large, dilapidated tenements from the Communist era.
Some of the tenements look deserted until I notice the occasional potted plant in a broken window or laundry on a line. This isn’t uncommon in Siberia where many communities are simply dying as younger generations forsake their homes in search of work in the cities. Perhaps it’s just my western mindset, but I find it surprising that these buildings are not torn down, not repurposed, not memorialized in any way – they are abandoned with a shrug of the shoulders, left behind for the siren song of work and a future elsewhere.
I glance at my cabin mates and wonder where their thoughts have wandered.
“And the heart is hard to translate, It has a language of its own…” Florence + the Machine plays in the background. “It talks in tongues and quiet sighs, And prayers and proclamations…”
Making An International Impression
Olga wanders into our cabin to chat and, as it so often does when women are together, the conversation turns to men. She says something about how women often cry after “going with” a guy and the flip American in me retorts, “If you cry he’s definitely doing something wro-“…I cut myself off abruptly realizing I’m not in Boston anymore - this might be a thoughtful cross-cultural conversation about two souls becoming one. I stop fiddling with my backpack and sit next to her, my active listening fully engaged.
“Russian girls, they go out for drinks and then they go with some guy and say ‘oh hee hee! This is fun!’ but then, the next day, the girls cryyyy! Russian girls try to be like American girls but they can’t. Because they are Russian.”
I laugh. “Well, I have news for you: American girls can’t be American girls. Mostly they pretend to have fun.”
Olga eyes me carefully for a moment.
“I don’t understand,“ she muses aloud. “People who do this, they are empty inside and are only trying to make themselves feel better.”
I don’t disagree but I tread carefully in conversations like these, not knowing my new friend’s background and what (or who) we are actually talking about.
After a moment I say, “I think you should only… go with… people who make you feel loved and safe. And never let anyone else tell you how to have fun.”
Olga seems to approve of this response.
For the remainder of the trip we tease her about calling us slutty American girls. I mean, technically she didn’t - but she so did! There you have it ladies, in case you were wondering, the world thinks we’re a bunch of free-loving sluts.
All kidding aside, it is interesting to hear other countries’ impressions of the United States. The “frisky American girls” theory is one I have heard in my travels before, but I have also heard we think we are above international law. I have heard we are a greedy society, boastful and too proud, young and eager to make our presence known. I have listened as people who have never been to the United States rave about it being the best country in the world – which always makes me feel a little bit sad. Sometimes someone will ask a question about the U.S. and I feel the pressure of speaking on behalf of my entire country (even for those uber-conservative square states in the middle).
I pause for a minute thinking about the illusion of fun perpetuated by these abstract Slutty American Girls. I wonder if perhaps there isn’t also a Great Gatsby-esque quality to our grand American dream as well. How accessible is this dream to the average American? Where are we excelling? And where do we need to improve?
These are big questions for a girl on vacation and I decide to make some tea. As I approach the samovar I see OCD Provodnitsa is blocking the hallway as she folds laundry. I make a huge point of rolling my eyes and acting annoyed – not because I actually mind waiting for her to move, I just want to feel in on the haughty, grumpy joke. She looks at me stone-faced and lets out a long, slow sigh. I’ve managed to disappoint her again.
Brace yourself, dear Reader. Next time we actually get somewhere... the beautiful Lake Baikal!
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Into The Great Wide Open
Siberia, at least for me, has always existed in the realm of myth – a land with a melancholy air, immense and unknowable. Siberia transcends physical space and has become a mental construct of sorts often used to describe a person or place that is isolated, somehow separate from the whole. There are no markers that denote where it officially begins but generally the term is used to refer to the expanse of land stretching from the Ural Mountains to the Pacific Ocean. In any case, we cross into it without much ado. If there were mountains, I missed them and so my long-awaited entry to Siberia settled upon me almost imperceptibly – like a fog, or a cold, or that fizzy feeling you get when you start to fancy someone.
“THIS is Russia!” Olga says as we stand by the windows admiring the endless rows of birch trees. With no demands on our time, our group whittles away the hours admiring the scenery, chatting, napping, and eating. Each day the train makes several longer stops (20-40 minutes) where we stretch our legs on the platform and stock up on snacks – sometimes we’re lucky and babushkas (technically, “grandmothers”) are there selling homemade goods… other times we’re not so lucky and buy pre-packaged food of the “just add water” variety. Every night a few of us squeeze into our already cramped cabin to watch an episode of ‘Breaking Bad’ on Ashley’s iPad. Our TV time lends some structure to the evening and after being in Siberia for a while, Jesse Pinkman starts looking dateable to me…
10 Ways to Piss Off the Provodnitsa
Each train carriage has an attendant called a provodnitsa to ensure the carriage is clean and to keep passengers in line. We had several provodnitsas on our various train journeys – each had their own quirks but all of them, in typical Russian fashion, generally disapproved of our existence. Whether I was refilling my tea cup at the samovar, making my way to the bathroom, or simply passing them in the hall, the provodnitsas always seemed to be scolding me about something. I never could figure out why they were unhappy with me and eventually their grumbles became soothing background noise.
On this first train journey we encountered Stingy Provodnitsa. After a day or so of wondering why there was no toilet paper in the bathroom we realized she had a “one roll per day” motto - hardly enough for a carriage of around 24 people. This resulted in us buying TP on the platforms and hoarding it in anticipation of shortages.
Next was OCD Provodnitsa who, if nothing else, always made sure the bathroom was properly stocked! Once she was spotted in the wee hours of the morning on her hands and knees getting eye level with the dusty carriage carpet – attempting to get it perfectly straight. Then there was Sexy Provodnitsa – who, just to clarify, was not actually sexy at all. She had dark curly hair, long talon-like nails, and an enormous chest. During her off hours she would strut around the carriage in her track suit looking unimpressed with everyone. One morning she opened our cabin door without warning while we were undressing and, after looking us over a moment, muttered something and slammed the door shut. Unimpressed again, I suppose.
Wherever you go, There YOU are…
One of the coolest things (I think) about travel is the way it allows you to live in the needs of the day – dare I say, demands it. Suddenly, all of your worldly troubles pare down to: what can I eat, where can I go to the bathroom, and where the heck am I anyway? I order coffee every day at home in Boston, but when I order coffee in Russian and actually get coffee it means only one thing: I’m a genius! Being on the road allows you to savor little victories and move your mind away from the existential dilemmas of your daily life. At least… for a little while…
The lights are out and I’m snuggled up in my upper bunk, the motion of the train lulling me off to sleep. I’m overcome with a rare moment of contentment – it’s as though I’m exactly where I should be (even though I don’t know exactly where I am).
A few hours later I wake up from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream. I slip quietly out of the cabin and into the hallway. I’m relieved to find Scott is also awake, looking out of the window and eating instant mashed potatoes. The digital clock at the end of the carriage reads 2AM. The trains run on Moscow time but we’re traveling through five time zones on our way to Irkutsk so the concept of time in general has become rather nebulous. For a moment I think how arbitrary the notion is and of how often people stress about it – time to get married, time to have babies… the list goes on…
I tell Scott about my dream and we stay up talking for a while. We talk about our exes and our families and how strange it feels to go home after a long trip. A world away, surrounded by newness, and yet I find myself talking about the people and things that have always mattered to me. Traveling brings you out of your element, but in many ways the distance illuminates the things you carry with you wherever you go. And here I am again – relentless, stubborn, inescapable me.
The train passes the neon lights of Novosibirsk (Siberia’s second largest city) and our faces are reflected in the window. We look sleepy and decide it’s time to go back to bed.
“THIS is Russia!” Olga says as we stand by the windows admiring the endless rows of birch trees. With no demands on our time, our group whittles away the hours admiring the scenery, chatting, napping, and eating. Each day the train makes several longer stops (20-40 minutes) where we stretch our legs on the platform and stock up on snacks – sometimes we’re lucky and babushkas (technically, “grandmothers”) are there selling homemade goods… other times we’re not so lucky and buy pre-packaged food of the “just add water” variety. Every night a few of us squeeze into our already cramped cabin to watch an episode of ‘Breaking Bad’ on Ashley’s iPad. Our TV time lends some structure to the evening and after being in Siberia for a while, Jesse Pinkman starts looking dateable to me…
10 Ways to Piss Off the Provodnitsa
Each train carriage has an attendant called a provodnitsa to ensure the carriage is clean and to keep passengers in line. We had several provodnitsas on our various train journeys – each had their own quirks but all of them, in typical Russian fashion, generally disapproved of our existence. Whether I was refilling my tea cup at the samovar, making my way to the bathroom, or simply passing them in the hall, the provodnitsas always seemed to be scolding me about something. I never could figure out why they were unhappy with me and eventually their grumbles became soothing background noise.
On this first train journey we encountered Stingy Provodnitsa. After a day or so of wondering why there was no toilet paper in the bathroom we realized she had a “one roll per day” motto - hardly enough for a carriage of around 24 people. This resulted in us buying TP on the platforms and hoarding it in anticipation of shortages.
Next was OCD Provodnitsa who, if nothing else, always made sure the bathroom was properly stocked! Once she was spotted in the wee hours of the morning on her hands and knees getting eye level with the dusty carriage carpet – attempting to get it perfectly straight. Then there was Sexy Provodnitsa – who, just to clarify, was not actually sexy at all. She had dark curly hair, long talon-like nails, and an enormous chest. During her off hours she would strut around the carriage in her track suit looking unimpressed with everyone. One morning she opened our cabin door without warning while we were undressing and, after looking us over a moment, muttered something and slammed the door shut. Unimpressed again, I suppose.
Wherever you go, There YOU are…
One of the coolest things (I think) about travel is the way it allows you to live in the needs of the day – dare I say, demands it. Suddenly, all of your worldly troubles pare down to: what can I eat, where can I go to the bathroom, and where the heck am I anyway? I order coffee every day at home in Boston, but when I order coffee in Russian and actually get coffee it means only one thing: I’m a genius! Being on the road allows you to savor little victories and move your mind away from the existential dilemmas of your daily life. At least… for a little while…
The lights are out and I’m snuggled up in my upper bunk, the motion of the train lulling me off to sleep. I’m overcome with a rare moment of contentment – it’s as though I’m exactly where I should be (even though I don’t know exactly where I am).
A few hours later I wake up from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream. I slip quietly out of the cabin and into the hallway. I’m relieved to find Scott is also awake, looking out of the window and eating instant mashed potatoes. The digital clock at the end of the carriage reads 2AM. The trains run on Moscow time but we’re traveling through five time zones on our way to Irkutsk so the concept of time in general has become rather nebulous. For a moment I think how arbitrary the notion is and of how often people stress about it – time to get married, time to have babies… the list goes on…
I tell Scott about my dream and we stay up talking for a while. We talk about our exes and our families and how strange it feels to go home after a long trip. A world away, surrounded by newness, and yet I find myself talking about the people and things that have always mattered to me. Traveling brings you out of your element, but in many ways the distance illuminates the things you carry with you wherever you go. And here I am again – relentless, stubborn, inescapable me.
The train passes the neon lights of Novosibirsk (Siberia’s second largest city) and our faces are reflected in the window. We look sleepy and decide it’s time to go back to bed.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
"This is... it?"
Before we hop onto the Trans-Siberian I must share an interesting encounter that I had in the Moscow train station. Our group gathers in the station’s waiting area and while some people have wandered off for various reasons, I am watching our luggage while Scott (from Canada) and Leah (from Australia) are nearby killing time. Scott is sitting on a row of chairs and motions for me to have a seat next to him. As soon as I do a beautiful Russian woman seated on the other side of me starts talking excitedly. She doesn’t seem happy. After a minute of what I assume are unpleasantries I stand up – maybe she’s saving that seat for someone? I go back to hovering a few steps away amongst our bags. The woman persists. Finally, she stands up and walks over to me. She keeps yelling at me, she touches my stomach (did she just call me fat?), she gestures to Leah who is sitting on the ground amongst our trekking packs…. Completely exasperated by my cluelessness, the beautiful woman sits back down and mutters angrily to herself.
Thankfully, our guide Olga returns a few moments later and I ask her to translate for this very attractive, very upset Russian woman. After an intense exchange, Olga explains that in Russia many people believe if a woman sits on the cold ground she will get an infection and, if left untreated, the infection can lead to infertility. The Russian woman was trying to convince me to tell Leah to stop sitting on the ground. Olga is serious as she explains the affliction affects a woman’s lady parts and can cause an infection of the kidneys – often a woman will have symptoms similar to pneumonia.
I’m no medical professional but this mystery illness seems highly suspicious. Scott and I decide it is far more likely some wayward Russian girl got an infection the old fashioned way and managed to convince her parents it was a result of “sitting on the cold ground.” We snicker and Olga laughs along with us but insists it is true – they even make strap-on ass mats to protect against such things! Realizing the Russian woman only wanted to save us from becoming barren, I smile and thank her. She smiles back. You learn something new every day.
All aboard!
The Trans-Siberian railway stretches almost 5,800 miles from Moscow to Vladivostok making it the longest railway in the world. As you can imagine, this railway was especially impactful in Russia – a country that’s size is both advantageous and burdensome. Making this endeavor even more impressive is the fact that the rail was being laid in scarcely populated areas subject to harsh weather conditions.
To ride the rail the entire way across Siberia takes eight days. Our group is getting off in Irkutsk which means we will be on the train for four nights and four days straight. To make matters even cozier, we will be sharing 4-bed compartments and a (showerless) bathroom for the length of our journey. Holy quality together time, Batman!
With a great deal of fumbling around the tiny space, Ashley, Sarah, Sabrina, and I finally settle into our cabin. Seated on the lower bunks we watch the scenery roll by and soak in the beginnings of our journey. The entire carriage is quiet – perhaps moved to silence by the promise of adventure further down the track. We look around at each other.
“So…” someone says. “I guess…. This is… it?”
Yeah. This is pretty much it. Just us. Staring at each other. For four days.
In preparation for my trip I watched every movie about the Trans-Siberian that I could get my hands on - most of them were stories of murder and intrigue on a train traveling through a frozen, unending land. I find myself slightly disappointed that no one seems to be plotting my demise… not that I know of anyway. Also, considering I dreamed of making this trip for most of my life, I expected to feel… you know, something. I wait. No profound moment of greater consciousness washes over me.
In so many ways travel illuminates the most important of life’s lessons – in an accelerated crash course style. I smile to myself in this moment knowing I’ve struggled with this lesson on other journeys, both physical and emotional, many times before: have no expectations. I know, it’s a tough one. But I find that much like the unlikely romances that sweep you off of your feet, the great job you haphazardly stumble into, or the improbable friend who changes your life, these overwhelming waves of clarity or soul-stirring moments seldom come when you think they will.
For now, I embrace my mediocre thoughts and settle into my upper bunk with a good book.
Thankfully, our guide Olga returns a few moments later and I ask her to translate for this very attractive, very upset Russian woman. After an intense exchange, Olga explains that in Russia many people believe if a woman sits on the cold ground she will get an infection and, if left untreated, the infection can lead to infertility. The Russian woman was trying to convince me to tell Leah to stop sitting on the ground. Olga is serious as she explains the affliction affects a woman’s lady parts and can cause an infection of the kidneys – often a woman will have symptoms similar to pneumonia.
I’m no medical professional but this mystery illness seems highly suspicious. Scott and I decide it is far more likely some wayward Russian girl got an infection the old fashioned way and managed to convince her parents it was a result of “sitting on the cold ground.” We snicker and Olga laughs along with us but insists it is true – they even make strap-on ass mats to protect against such things! Realizing the Russian woman only wanted to save us from becoming barren, I smile and thank her. She smiles back. You learn something new every day.
All aboard!
The Trans-Siberian railway stretches almost 5,800 miles from Moscow to Vladivostok making it the longest railway in the world. As you can imagine, this railway was especially impactful in Russia – a country that’s size is both advantageous and burdensome. Making this endeavor even more impressive is the fact that the rail was being laid in scarcely populated areas subject to harsh weather conditions.
To ride the rail the entire way across Siberia takes eight days. Our group is getting off in Irkutsk which means we will be on the train for four nights and four days straight. To make matters even cozier, we will be sharing 4-bed compartments and a (showerless) bathroom for the length of our journey. Holy quality together time, Batman!
With a great deal of fumbling around the tiny space, Ashley, Sarah, Sabrina, and I finally settle into our cabin. Seated on the lower bunks we watch the scenery roll by and soak in the beginnings of our journey. The entire carriage is quiet – perhaps moved to silence by the promise of adventure further down the track. We look around at each other.
“So…” someone says. “I guess…. This is… it?”
Yeah. This is pretty much it. Just us. Staring at each other. For four days.
In preparation for my trip I watched every movie about the Trans-Siberian that I could get my hands on - most of them were stories of murder and intrigue on a train traveling through a frozen, unending land. I find myself slightly disappointed that no one seems to be plotting my demise… not that I know of anyway. Also, considering I dreamed of making this trip for most of my life, I expected to feel… you know, something. I wait. No profound moment of greater consciousness washes over me.
In so many ways travel illuminates the most important of life’s lessons – in an accelerated crash course style. I smile to myself in this moment knowing I’ve struggled with this lesson on other journeys, both physical and emotional, many times before: have no expectations. I know, it’s a tough one. But I find that much like the unlikely romances that sweep you off of your feet, the great job you haphazardly stumble into, or the improbable friend who changes your life, these overwhelming waves of clarity or soul-stirring moments seldom come when you think they will.
For now, I embrace my mediocre thoughts and settle into my upper bunk with a good book.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
The Day Moscow Was Canceled
Our group arrives in Moscow first thing in the morning after an evening on the train. Unable to check into our hotel rooms, our group does its best to wash up and change clothes in the hotel lobby bathroom. The results are mediocre but there’s a city to see and we make for the Red Square straight away. We take the metro which, it has to be said, is a great achievement of Stalin’s – it is one of the most heavily used metro systems in the world. The statues of determined communist workers lining the halls are almost comical… I wonder if propaganda is comical when taken out of context or, one might argue, even when contextualized.
Red Square is full of all manner of nerdtastic fun – but sadly, I’ll never see any of it. We arrive only to find the entire place including the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Cathedral, and the Square itself gated off and guarded by Russian military. Apparently, on the one day in my life I decide to visit Moscow, its historical epicenter is blockaded to accommodate some kind of Olympic ceremony rehearsal. Weak. But isn’t that just life? Your boat finally comes in and inevitably you find yourself at the airport. (Sigh).
I Wax (A Little) Political
Our group takes it in stride and we head to Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. This Russian Orthodox Church made headlines in 2012 when members of the punk rock band, Pussy Riot, staged a guerilla performance in the church - a form of protest against Putin (at that time entering his third term). In addition to likening Putin to a dictator, Pussy Riot also advocated for LGBT rights and expressed concern (to put it mildly) over the lack of separation between church and state. Members of the band were convicted of “hooliganism motivated by religious hatred” and sentenced to two years in prison. Those reading the news this week may have noticed that one band member, Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, has gone “missing” while allegedly being transported to another penal colony in Siberia.
So… I have no desire to turn my travel blog into a political soapbox but to gloss over the social and political issues of the country I am visiting would be remiss. You can travel for fun, to make friends, to take great photos, to “bug out” on whatever weirdness you have going on at home… but perhaps the greatest gift travel offers you – if you are open to receiving it – is the ability to contemplate the lives of other people. Having loved ones in the LGBT community I find myself wondering what their (our!) lives would be like in Russia. I ponder these things and am overcome with a sense of pride in the US – a country where things are slowly changing for those who are underrepresented and a country where I can run my mouth about our government with reckless abandon.
Some of my friends from the LGBT community disapproved of my trip (fair enough) but I would ask of them and you, dear Reader, to not assume the Russian government speaks for all of the Russian people. I mean, when was the last time the White House reached out to get your thoughts on important matters of state?
THE Ballet (Or So We Thought)
Failing to see any of Moscow’s must-see sights, a few of us decide to get tickets to the ballet. A word about the Russian ballet and the Bolshoi theatre: it’s a BIG freakin’ deal. This isn’t a ballet. The Bolshoi is one of the world’s oldest ballet companies so, in many ways, this is the ballet. This past winter the New Yorker ran a story about the Bolshoi theatre’s artistic director, Sergei Filin, getting sulfuric acid thrown in his face - an attack allegedly plotted by one of the ballet company’s lead dancers. Yikes.
Ashley, Louise (from the UK), and I head to the Bolshoi ticket office to see what all the fuss is about. The ticket attendant is irritated with me (surprise, surprise) and finds me so unbearable she just walks off never to return. Since I’m used to this now, I simply request three tickets from the woman who takes her place. Also irritated with me for reasons unknown, the second ticket booth attendant insists there are only two tickets left to the performance that night. But of course! We take the two tickets. Surely, there is one more to be found – after all, we are in the land of bribes…
Thanks to a scalper we find just outside the theatre, we are able to obtain a third ticket. I carefully compare his ticket with my legitimately purchased tickets. The barcode numbers, font, watermark, and logos appear comparable and sure enough, we are admitted to the theatre with no trouble. While I think myself quite clever for negotiating the price and inspecting the ticket, one very obvious fact escapes me: I can’t read Cyrillic. Neither can Ashley. Neither can Louise. Had we been able to read the tickets we would have noticed the performance that evening was not a ballet at all but rather, an opera. And so it was that we arrived at one of the world’s most famous ballets not, in fact, to see a ballet, all while still unshowered and underdressed from the train ride the night before... It was magical all the same.
Up next: We ditch the west for Siberia’s Wild East. Yeow!
Red Square is full of all manner of nerdtastic fun – but sadly, I’ll never see any of it. We arrive only to find the entire place including the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Cathedral, and the Square itself gated off and guarded by Russian military. Apparently, on the one day in my life I decide to visit Moscow, its historical epicenter is blockaded to accommodate some kind of Olympic ceremony rehearsal. Weak. But isn’t that just life? Your boat finally comes in and inevitably you find yourself at the airport. (Sigh).
I Wax (A Little) Political
Our group takes it in stride and we head to Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. This Russian Orthodox Church made headlines in 2012 when members of the punk rock band, Pussy Riot, staged a guerilla performance in the church - a form of protest against Putin (at that time entering his third term). In addition to likening Putin to a dictator, Pussy Riot also advocated for LGBT rights and expressed concern (to put it mildly) over the lack of separation between church and state. Members of the band were convicted of “hooliganism motivated by religious hatred” and sentenced to two years in prison. Those reading the news this week may have noticed that one band member, Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, has gone “missing” while allegedly being transported to another penal colony in Siberia.
So… I have no desire to turn my travel blog into a political soapbox but to gloss over the social and political issues of the country I am visiting would be remiss. You can travel for fun, to make friends, to take great photos, to “bug out” on whatever weirdness you have going on at home… but perhaps the greatest gift travel offers you – if you are open to receiving it – is the ability to contemplate the lives of other people. Having loved ones in the LGBT community I find myself wondering what their (our!) lives would be like in Russia. I ponder these things and am overcome with a sense of pride in the US – a country where things are slowly changing for those who are underrepresented and a country where I can run my mouth about our government with reckless abandon.
Some of my friends from the LGBT community disapproved of my trip (fair enough) but I would ask of them and you, dear Reader, to not assume the Russian government speaks for all of the Russian people. I mean, when was the last time the White House reached out to get your thoughts on important matters of state?
THE Ballet (Or So We Thought)
Failing to see any of Moscow’s must-see sights, a few of us decide to get tickets to the ballet. A word about the Russian ballet and the Bolshoi theatre: it’s a BIG freakin’ deal. This isn’t a ballet. The Bolshoi is one of the world’s oldest ballet companies so, in many ways, this is the ballet. This past winter the New Yorker ran a story about the Bolshoi theatre’s artistic director, Sergei Filin, getting sulfuric acid thrown in his face - an attack allegedly plotted by one of the ballet company’s lead dancers. Yikes.
Ashley, Louise (from the UK), and I head to the Bolshoi ticket office to see what all the fuss is about. The ticket attendant is irritated with me (surprise, surprise) and finds me so unbearable she just walks off never to return. Since I’m used to this now, I simply request three tickets from the woman who takes her place. Also irritated with me for reasons unknown, the second ticket booth attendant insists there are only two tickets left to the performance that night. But of course! We take the two tickets. Surely, there is one more to be found – after all, we are in the land of bribes…
Thanks to a scalper we find just outside the theatre, we are able to obtain a third ticket. I carefully compare his ticket with my legitimately purchased tickets. The barcode numbers, font, watermark, and logos appear comparable and sure enough, we are admitted to the theatre with no trouble. While I think myself quite clever for negotiating the price and inspecting the ticket, one very obvious fact escapes me: I can’t read Cyrillic. Neither can Ashley. Neither can Louise. Had we been able to read the tickets we would have noticed the performance that evening was not a ballet at all but rather, an opera. And so it was that we arrived at one of the world’s most famous ballets not, in fact, to see a ballet, all while still unshowered and underdressed from the train ride the night before... It was magical all the same.
Up next: We ditch the west for Siberia’s Wild East. Yeow!
Monday, November 4, 2013
Russia: "No reason, no smile."
A little known fact about globetrotting alone is that it can be… well, lonely. Lonely is exactly how I feel after a couple of days in St. Petersburg on my own. While I typically enjoy my solitude, being far from loved ones in a strange land is taking its toll. I surrender to the feeling and head out into the sunshine anyway.
I stop for coffee on my stroll down Nevsky Prospekt and the woman behind the counter seems especially aggrieved that I’m paying with a 500 ruble note. This happens several times while I’m in St. Petersburg and it is completely befuddling - 500 rubles is approximately 15USD so it’s not like I’m dropping major bank at the local coffee shop. This brings me to an important note about Russians…
….They. Are. Grumpy. Every guidebook I read mentioned the brusque manner of the Russian people. This persona only seems to apply to the public sphere and I’m positive Russians are as loving and loyal as any other nationality when in the comfort of their own home (kinda like Bostonians only crankier). However, in just a few short days I have been on the receiving end of prolonged exasperated sighs, exaggerated eye rolls, and sometimes an outright refusal to acknowledge my existence. Accepting the fact that the Russian people as a whole find me epically disappointing, I respond in the only way I know how – by choosing to find it humorous. My Russian tour guide would later explain this phenomenon, “In Russia it is like this: no reason, no smile.” No kidding.
Fifteen Seconds to Safety
As I near the end of Nevsky Prospekt I notice my guidebook has marked a “point of interest” right where I’m standing. It is so inconspicuous that I almost miss it entirely… The Siege Plaque is a relic from the siege of Leningrad (St. Petersburg) dating from 1941-1944. According to my book it reads, “Citizens! This side of the street is more dangerous during an artillery bombardment.” Hmm.
The Siege of Leningrad was one of the most devastating sieges in history. German forces surrounded the entire city - and blocked supply chains - for almost 900 days. That’s two and a half years, people! Needless to say the loss of life was tremendous with many Russians dying not from artillery bombardments, but of starvation. Somehow this small plaque fails to lend the appropriate gravitas to the situation. I cross over to the “safer” side of the street - a mere fifteen seconds away according to the crosswalk light - and feel thankful to have never seen such times.
A Malia Divided Against Herself (straight from my journal - telegraph style)
Play chess against self in park. Vow not to go easy. Fifty minutes pass. Stalemate ensues. Ponder implications of being unable to outwit myself. Come up with nothing. Ambivalence. Violinist nearby playing Pachelbel’s Canon and Gigue in D major. Love! Feel hungry.
Yay! I make a friend.
After a little too much “me time” I’m excited to meet my travel companions this evening. I’m both curious and skeptical about them – I mean, what kind of weirdo rides the Trans-Siberian railway on their vacation? I know what you’re thinking… but we know I’m not weird - I just like trains! Including Olga our Russian guide, there are 16 of us in total with travelers hailing from the US, the UK, Australia, Canada, Germany, and Singapore. Our group is mostly women and the ages range from late 20s to 40s.
Over dinner I make plans with Ashley, another blonde American, to see the Hermitage and the Church of Spilt Blood (not nearly as gruesome as it sounds!). We hit it off immediately… I think in large part because we have similar snacking schedules.
But enough about St. Petersburg, let's blow this popsicle stand. Next up: Moscow!
I stop for coffee on my stroll down Nevsky Prospekt and the woman behind the counter seems especially aggrieved that I’m paying with a 500 ruble note. This happens several times while I’m in St. Petersburg and it is completely befuddling - 500 rubles is approximately 15USD so it’s not like I’m dropping major bank at the local coffee shop. This brings me to an important note about Russians…
….They. Are. Grumpy. Every guidebook I read mentioned the brusque manner of the Russian people. This persona only seems to apply to the public sphere and I’m positive Russians are as loving and loyal as any other nationality when in the comfort of their own home (kinda like Bostonians only crankier). However, in just a few short days I have been on the receiving end of prolonged exasperated sighs, exaggerated eye rolls, and sometimes an outright refusal to acknowledge my existence. Accepting the fact that the Russian people as a whole find me epically disappointing, I respond in the only way I know how – by choosing to find it humorous. My Russian tour guide would later explain this phenomenon, “In Russia it is like this: no reason, no smile.” No kidding.
Fifteen Seconds to Safety
As I near the end of Nevsky Prospekt I notice my guidebook has marked a “point of interest” right where I’m standing. It is so inconspicuous that I almost miss it entirely… The Siege Plaque is a relic from the siege of Leningrad (St. Petersburg) dating from 1941-1944. According to my book it reads, “Citizens! This side of the street is more dangerous during an artillery bombardment.” Hmm.
The Siege of Leningrad was one of the most devastating sieges in history. German forces surrounded the entire city - and blocked supply chains - for almost 900 days. That’s two and a half years, people! Needless to say the loss of life was tremendous with many Russians dying not from artillery bombardments, but of starvation. Somehow this small plaque fails to lend the appropriate gravitas to the situation. I cross over to the “safer” side of the street - a mere fifteen seconds away according to the crosswalk light - and feel thankful to have never seen such times.
A Malia Divided Against Herself (straight from my journal - telegraph style)
Play chess against self in park. Vow not to go easy. Fifty minutes pass. Stalemate ensues. Ponder implications of being unable to outwit myself. Come up with nothing. Ambivalence. Violinist nearby playing Pachelbel’s Canon and Gigue in D major. Love! Feel hungry.
Yay! I make a friend.
After a little too much “me time” I’m excited to meet my travel companions this evening. I’m both curious and skeptical about them – I mean, what kind of weirdo rides the Trans-Siberian railway on their vacation? I know what you’re thinking… but we know I’m not weird - I just like trains! Including Olga our Russian guide, there are 16 of us in total with travelers hailing from the US, the UK, Australia, Canada, Germany, and Singapore. Our group is mostly women and the ages range from late 20s to 40s.
Over dinner I make plans with Ashley, another blonde American, to see the Hermitage and the Church of Spilt Blood (not nearly as gruesome as it sounds!). We hit it off immediately… I think in large part because we have similar snacking schedules.
But enough about St. Petersburg, let's blow this popsicle stand. Next up: Moscow!
Saturday, November 2, 2013
A Window to the West
Leaving Nikolai behind (I know, you’ll miss him too), my solo adventure in St. Petersburg begins. My tour group doesn’t meet for two more days so make yourself comfortable, dear Reader, and prepare for some serious quality time with me - and only me.
Today I am taking a boat 20 miles west of the city to Peterhof, St. Petersburg’s version of Versailles. Peter the Great commissioned the palace in the early 18th century and, although overwhelming you with history is not my intent, we need to spend a moment discussing this interesting man (I’ll be brief).
Peter the Great was a badass for several reasons. As a young man he traveled throughout Western Europe absorbing the culture and learning new skills. Meanwhile, everyone running Russia was stuck in a major sociopolitical slump. The monarchy had been plagued by murder and conspiracy for years but when Peter assumed power he modernized Russia in a major way – and pissed off a lot of boyars (nobles) in the process. During his reign Russia became a maritime power, he issued a beard tax after noting beards were out of fashion in the west, and he put an end to arranged marriages. The very city of St. Petersburg exists because Peter the Great wanted a “Window to the West.” In short, the man made moves.
I want to pause here because this notion of Russia struggling to keep pace with the western world is one I think about quite a bit in my travels. In many ways, Russia seems to be only half-heartedly striving to emulate our western ideals and I often feel it is a country neither here nor there.
Princess for a Day
Forty minutes later the hydrofoil completes its journey across the Gulf. I walk hurriedly along the dock because it is a decidedly gloomy day, the wind howling and the clouds hanging low. Overhead the Russian flag snaps in the breeze and I feel far from home. I approach a small ticket booth and a set of turnstiles at the entrance to the estate. An old man emerges and, as I move to hand him my ticket, he starts talking excitedly about… something (I really should have studied more Russian before my trip).
The man is gesturing with his arms and exclaiming things and smiling. I smile too – what else can I do? He motions for me to wait and disappears into his ticket booth. He re-emerges still chatting happily, takes my hand, and places something in it. It is a small candy with the Disney princess from Tangled on the wrapper. The man stops talking and smiles at me, looking satisfied. I arch my eyebrows quizzically.
He graciously begins to explain (still in Russian) and points to the candy. Then he points at me. To the candy. To me. He holds up the candy next to my face and I realize: this little old Russian man thinks I look like Disney’s Rapunzel. “Ahhhh!” I say, finally comprehending. He places the candy back in my hand and pats my shoulder. He extends his arm in the direction of the cascade fountains and just like that, I was off to the palace… a regular Disney princess.
Aside from the ornately wood-paneled study of Peter the Great, the palace itself is your run of the mill imperial fare turned museum. Visitors are required to wear paper booties over their shoes to protect the flooring so I make my way from room to room, crinkling as I go. Several times I pause to look at a painting only to have the female docents hurry me along. One actually said “shoo!” as she waved me out of the room. Through the window I see the sun has finally made an appearance. You can see a palace any time but a perfect fall day is a tiny miracle – I ditch the booties and hit the grounds.
The crunch of the gravel beneath my feet, the ribbons of sunlight streaming through the trees, the slow spiral descent of leaves as they fall to earth… the Peterhof grounds are beautiful, and I have them almost all to myself. The footpaths open into wide promenades with impressive fountains. The spaces are grand, but they leave me feeling exposed somehow. I find myself following the quiet paths to the outskirts of the estate, stopping occasionally whenever I see a bench that looks especially inviting.
When it is time to head back I peek into the ticket booth to bid farewell to my new friend. He is sitting in a chair with his head slightly bowed – I realize he is napping and leave him to his slumber.
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