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!

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!

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.

The World Awaits

A note about Russia before our adventure begins… Lacking the artistic splendor of Italy, the exotic beaches of Hawaii, or the comforts of a Sandals resort in the Caribbean, Russia may seem an unlikely vacation destination. For me (and for many other far more talented writers before me), Russia possesses an air of mystery. The land itself is enormous – one twelfth of the land on earth! Spanning 11 time zones, the geography of this country is every bit as notable as its long and complicated history. I am no authority on Russia or its people so please take my humble musings with a grain of salt – this is Russia as I experienced it.

The Welcome Wagon

Though you think they are a myth, I am one of those rare individuals who truly enjoys air travel. There is something about the exotic cities on the Departures screen and the tiny – albeit inedible – in-flight meals that make me feel the flutter of possibility. I land in St. Petersburg in good spirits and scan the arrivals area for my airport transfer. Holding a sign that reads 'Ms. Malia Callahan' is a tall, thin man in his mid-fifties. I smile, thinking the title is a nice gesture, and make my way over to him.

"Zdrastvuytye (Hello)," I say in greeting.

"Zdrastvuytye," he replies rather seriously. "I am waiting for Ms. Malia Callahan. Are you Ms. Malia Callahan?"

 "Yes. I am Ms. Malia Callahan."

Lowering the sign with a sigh of relief he exclaims, "Oh good! I was hoping you would be you. You know you look just like a Ms. Malia Callahan!"

Though I'm unsure what that means exactly, I find it vaguely flattering…. Or, at the very least, somehow reassuring.

For the next forty minutes Nikolai talks enthusiastically about... well, everything. He talks about his new puppy, the leaky roof that needs to be repaired at his dacha (country home), and wonders how I feel about the US not being on the metric system. (This question he asks gently… almost so as not to embarrass me).

He bemoans Putin and blames media censorship for the current state of affairs (while never specifying which affairs he is referring to) - how can an uninformed public rally behind another candidate? Nikolai predicts that as I travel east through Siberia I will find Putin’s approval rating to be higher. Unlike his predecessors, Putin visits Siberia frequently so I suppose that makes sense. 

Nikolai has lived in St. Petersburg his entire life but he is very well traveled. He asks me to name all of the countries I’ve visited and nods with approval or sighs wistfully as I run through the list.

"I used to be a rolling stone you know! Not anymore. I need to care for other things now. Rolling stone... that's from a quotation." He stares out at the road ahead looking a bit sad that his roll has slowed. We sit quietly for a moment.

"You know there's another version of that quotation," I say, feeling the odd urge to console him.  "’A rolling stone gathers no moss… but a little moss is a good thing on a man.'"

"Moss?" He adjusts his glasses and is silent for so long I begin to wonder if he doesn't understand the word. Finally he breaks into a crooked smile and says, "Yes! Moss..... I have moss."

The van pulls up to my hotel on Nevsky Prospekt, the main road in St. Petersburg. Nikolai unloads my bag from the trunk and after studying my face closely for a moment decides I’ll be ‘quite alright in this life’. I wish him good luck with his new puppy and wave goodbye as I head into the hotel.

“Ms. Malia Callahan!”  he cries after me. “You must go everywhere! You must! You must go everywhere because everywhere is waiting for you to arrive!"

I giggle. It is a ridiculous sentiment and yet, it is one I have always felt to be true.

Nikolai was the first Russian I met in my travels. And he was my favorite.

Anatomy of an Adventure

Hello, dear Reader! Welcome to my very first blog. At the insistence of my fan club - an ardent population of one (my mother) - I’ve decided to share some journal entries from my most recent adventure. I’ve spent the last few weeks riding the rails from St. Petersburg, Russia through Siberia, Mongolia, and ending finally in Beijing. With no grand thematic approach or literary agenda in mind, I simply hope my posts bring you some enjoyment.

 

I have wanted to explore Russia by way of the Trans-Siberian railway since I was a teenager. There’s something romantic about watching the world go by while on a train and, quite frankly, it all feels very “Indiana Jones” to me.

When I told people about my trip the results were… varied. Some people were jealous, there were a few blank stares, and then there was the coworker who went on a tirade for 10 minutes detailing all of the reasons I would be miserable on this trip - the cramped trains, the cold weather, the foreign languages! A few men remarked that I didn’t look like someone who would go to Siberia (I’m still uncertain if this was a compliment or an insult). But by far the most popular response I got was this: “What if something happens?”

 

“What if something happens?” I smile inwardly because this response speaks to the very crux of my wanderlust. Perhaps my biggest fear in life is that nothing will happen to me. Ever. I worry that somehow this is it – I’ll whittle away my life with quotidian tasks and never experience anything soul-stirring. This fear is completely irrational (as most fears are) but it creates a restlessness that travel seems to soothe… at least temporarily.

 

Over the next few weeks I invite you to join me on my journey. **Spoiler Alert!!**  Things happen. J